Dancing on the Wind

Chapter 14

Like his quarry, Lucien was rather good at altering his appearance. He was disguised the next morning and looking for a hackney coach on Oxford Street when he saw the Duke of Candover approaching. Feeling mischievous, he said with a thick Yorkshire accent, "Excuse me, sir, but is the English Opera House near here?"

Looking pained at being accosted by a stranger, Rafe said coolly, "Five minutes' walk ahead, on the left."

Lapsing into his natural voice, Lucien said, "Many thanks, your grace."

Rafe halted, then swung around. "Luce, is that you?"

"In the flesh," Lucien replied, "and gratified that you didn't give me the cut direct when I asked you for directions."

The duke snorted and fell into step beside him. "What are you up' to this time?"

"A bit of investigation, though I'd thank you not to announce it to all of Mayfair."

"How do you do it?" Rafe asked in a quieter voice. "Obviously darkening your hair and wearing spectacles and shabby clothing make a difference, but those things are superficial." He gave his friend a searching glance. "Your features are the same, yet you look shorter and broader than usual, and entirely forgettable. If I hadn't known you since I was ten years old, I would have no idea who you are."

"A disguise starts in the mind," Lucien explained. "Wealth and power and position endow a person with a kind of confidence that is unmistakable. Putting those things aside and thinking of oneself as insignificant and financially insecure creates a very different aura."

"I suppose it would," Rafe admitted, "though I can't imagine wanting to do so. I quite enjoy wealth, title, and power."

"You play the role of arrogant aristocrat so well that it would be a crime to drop it," Lucien agreed. "Speaking of which, we had better separate. It might damage your reputation for hauteur if you're seen speaking to such an undistinguished character as James Wolsey of Leeds."

"I am perfectly civil to the lower orders, as long as they show proper deference," Rafe said blandly. "Be sure to tug your forelock when you leave."

Lucien grinned. "I've heard that the negotiations in Ghent are going better."

The duke nodded. "With luck we'll have peace with the Americans by Christmas."

"Amen to that." After a parting nod, Lucien hailed a hackney and rode to the Marlowe Theater. There he introduced himself as a journalist writing an article about Cassie James. The young lady had often pleased audiences in the north, and readers there would be interested in her London success.

His presence was accepted casually, and he spent several hours wandering about asking questions and taking notes. He was very skilled at extracting information; unfortunately, no one had anything useful to say. It was universally agreed that Miss James was a charming young lady, not high in the instep at all. Very professional, too.

However, she liked her privacy more than most. No one knew where she lived or any details of her personal life beyond the fact that the night before, her aristocratic lover had swept her from the green room, and a rare sight it had been. Though it had been assumed she had a protector, they'd not known the fellow was of such exalted rank. The lass had done well for herself, and more power to her.

Lucien took a certain satisfaction that no one recognized James Wolsey as the Earl of Strathmore. It was the only satisfaction he was finding in his day's work.

Even the theater manager was unable to help. During a break from rehearsing a new production, which seemed to consist of bellowing insults at clumsy dancers, he explained that Miss James played small roles in a number of different plays, but her understudy would be filling in for a week or two because Miss James had asked for time off to visit an ailing aunt. A satirical edge in his voice suggested that he considered the aunt to be fictional; he had been in the green room the night before when his rising young star had been carried off.

However, the girl would be back for the next performance of The Gypsy Lass, since that was her most important role. Mr. Wolsey should be sure to tell his readers that another play featuring Miss James was in development. She would play a breeches part, and it was safe to predict that all London would soon be worshipping at her dainty feet.

No, he had no idea where the young lady lived. Considering what temperamental creatures most actresses were, he thanked his lucky stars that Cassie kept herself to herself, showed up when she said she would, and never threw objects at her long-suffering manager. Now if Mr. Wolsey would excuse him, he must get back to work.

Lucien left the theater, frustrated but unsurprised. Once again, Lady Jane had covered her tracks well.

He arrived home to find that in his absence, an anonymous youth had delivered a parcel. He opened it in his study and found his missing cloak and an unsigned note saying, "Whatever else you may think of me, I am not a thief."

It did not improve his mood to see evidence that in her own weird way, Jane was honest. He was tempted to throw the cloak against a wall, but refrained; the heavy wool fabric would not have smashed in a satisfactory fashion.

Besides, he had already indulged in far too much emotion where Jane was concerned. It was high time he set lust aside and analyzed the woman objectively, as he would any other target of investigation. He tossed the cloak over the sofa, then sat at his desk with a sheet of foolscap and a pencil.

To begin with, what did he really know about her?

The one indisputable fact was that she was an actress, a worldly woman who was brilliant at assuming roles all the way from shy innocent to committed intellectual crusader.

She was also like him in many ways-too damned much so, since that similarity underlay both his obsession and his anger.

They were both devious, capable of lying with utter conviction. In his case he was convincing because there was always a purpose to his deceptions; he genuinely believed that he was acting for the ultimate good of his country.

There must be a similar core of sincerity in Jane, or she would not be such a persuasive liar. In fact, she had said as. much when explaining why her story about a nonexistent brother was so convincing. That underlying honesty was why he kept believing her over and over again.

What was driving her to repeatedly risk her life and reputation? He wrote down the key question and underlined it twice. If he knew the answer, he would finally understand her.

He thought back on the stories she had spun. First she had been a sister trying to help a younger brother, then an essayist determined to expose the rape and exploitation of defenseless young women. The common theme was protection, and her passionate caring had been utterly convincing.

Ergo, her maddening, unpredictable behavior was probably caused by a desire to protect someone. Could the person she was trying to help be a lover?

His mouth tightened. He didn't like the thought, but a lover who was in trouble would explain the ambivalence of her reactions to Lucien. Being torn between attraction to one man and fidelity to another could easily produce fevered kisses alternating with wild flight.

For a moment, a vision of her with another lover almost destroyed his dogged detachment. It took time to suppress the image enough for him to proceed with his analysis.

Her persistent attempts to spy on the Hellions indicated that her goal lay within that group. Apparently one of the members had something she wanted, and she had not yet found what she was seeking.

If he stayed close to the Hellions, she would probably appear again, but he was tired of waiting. Thoughtfully he tapped the end of his pencil on the leather surface of the desk as he considered other avenues of pursuit.

Jane had been very knowledgeable about the writings of L. J. Knight. Her claim to be the writer was probably false, but she might move in circles where the man's work was routinely discussed. Perhaps she frequented the salons where writers, artists, actors, and assorted other eccentrics rubbed shoulders and talked about life, politics, and art. In such a place she would have learned that the essayist was a recluse and that she could safely claim his identity, at least temporarily.

He had always enjoyed the salons himself-they had the liveliest conversation in London-but he had been too busy to visit any of them recently. It was time to make the circuit again. He would start at Lady Graham's. She was a wealthy widow with liberal opinions and a gregarious nature, and her fortnightly gatherings drew some of the most interesting and controversial people in Britain. Surely there he could find someone who knew a rising comic actress.

He laid down his pencil, feeling that he had finally made some progress. But it was time to set aside the mystery of Jane and prepare for dinner with Lord Mace. With luck, tonight he would be told when the next Hellion ritual would be held. On that occasion, he could be formally admitted into the group. That should bring him closer to finding the traitor.

As he tied his cravat, he smiled wryly. Perhaps Jane would turn up tonight, her leggy frame and mobile features disguised as one of Mace's footmen. If she did, this time he wouldn't be fool enough to let her out of his sight.