Dancing on the Wind

Chapter 4

The next step in Lucien's campaign to become accepted by the Hellions took place the evening after his return to London, when he visited a tavern called the Crown and Vulture, site of the group's monthly carouse. Roderick Harford had invited him to come and said that his brother, Lord Mace, would be there.

A cold rain was falling, and Lucien was glad to enter the smoky warmth of the tavern. The taproom at the front was full of roughly dressed working men. After one look at Lucien's expensive clothing, the bartender jerked a thumb over his shoulder "Yer fine friends are that way."

As Lucien walked down the hall to the back of the building, a roar of laughter met him. The Hellions were in a good mood.

He paused in the doorway to survey the room. It was his first visit to the Crown and Vulture. Lit by a fire and a handful of candles, it was a welcoming scene on a wintry night. About two dozen men lounged around the tables, tankards in their hands. Most were young, but several older men were also present.

There was also one woman, a saucy barmaid who was trading quips with her customers. Tall and voluptuous, she had a heavily painted face and an untidy mass of garish red curls rioting from beneath her cap. Her amazing figure was further emphasized by the apron tied around a remarkably slim waist.

What held the men enthralled, however, was her quick cockney tongue. When a youth asked reproachfully, "Why have you taken an instant dislike to me?" she replied tartly, "It saves time."

A burst of laughter rang out. After it died down, another youth declaimed, "You've won my heart, darling Sally. Come away with me tonight and we'll ride to Gretna Green."

"Go all that way on a bony nag?" She waggled her lush hips suggestively. "I can find me a better ride here in London."

The double entendre produced more hilarity. When it quieted, her suitor said with an exaggerated leer, "You'll find no better rider than me, Sally."

"Be off with you, lad," she scoffed. "You don't know a thing about riding, and I can prove it."

"How?" he asked indignantly.

She tilted her pitcher and splashed more drink into his tankard. "By pointing out that if the world was a sensible place, all men would ride sidesaddle."

Her comment brought the house down. Even Lucien laughed out loud. Having won the encounter, the wench strolled from the room, swaying provocatively. She had an earthy sensuality that would catch the attention of any man.

"So Lucifer has deigned to call. My brother said that you might," a deep voice drawled. "You should feel quite at home amongst the denizens of hell."

Lucien glanced to his right and saw Lord Mace lounging in a corner from which he could watch everything that went on in the room. As tall and lean as his younger brother, Mace was a compelling figure with dark hair and lightless eyes.

Taking Mace's comment as an invitation, Lucien ambled over to the empty seat next to him. "I'll do my best."

He started to say more, then stopped, arrested by an unexpected sight. Behind Mace stood a wooden perch, and on it was a huge hooded bird that moved restively from one foot to the other. "Who is your feathered friend?"

Mace's thin lips stretched into a smile. "That's George, the vulture this place is named for. The tavern owner used to be an actor, and he rents the bird out whenever a theater needs one." He glanced affectionately at the vulture. "Lends a nice touch, don't you think?"

"Definitely atmospheric," Lucien agreed.

Sally appeared with a full pitcher in one hand and a tankard in the other. She plunked the tankard in front of Lucien. "Here you go, my 'andsome lad. Enjoy your devil's punch."

Then she undulated away. Her eyes had been averted, and her face was obscured by her garish hair, but the fleeting glimpse he had of her features showed that she was so heavily painted that she might be trying to cover up smallpox scars. Not that it mattered; few men would bother to look as far as her face.

The tankard proved to contain mulled ale with a hefty dose of spirits added. "I see why this is called devil's punch," he observed. "It burns like the fires of hell."

"After two tankards, you'll be able to recite scripture backward," Mace said with sardonic humor.

"Or I'll think I can, which comes to much the same thing." Lucien nodded toward the barmaid. "Does she ever attend your ceremonies? She looks like a lively piece."

Mace's eyes narrowed. "What do you know about our rituals?"

"Rumor says that the Hellions dress as medieval monks. After a ceremony, each 'monk' chooses a partner from among a group of 'nuns' enlisted from the ranks of London's better prostitutes. It's said that some of the nuns are actually society ladies out for a lark." Lucien gave a wicked chuckle. "I heard that once a monk and nun were appalled to rip off their robes and discover that they were husband and wife."

Mace's heavy brows drew together. "You're well informed."

"When half your members drink like fish, you can hardly expect secrecy." Lucien gave a faint smile. "I thought your group sounded amusing. Life has been getting dull lately, which is why I accepted your brother's invitation."

"We do our best to stave off boredom." Mace studied Lucien's face, frank skepticism in his eyes. "Roderick said that you were interested in joining us. I was surprised. You give the impression of being too fastidious, too much the dandy, to want to be part of a group dedicated to dissipation."

"I enjoy contrasts. I also enjoy intrigue." Lucien made a minute adjustment to his cuff. "Most of all, I enjoy confounding people's expectations."

Mace smiled faintly. "Then we have something in common."

"We have other mutual interests, I think. I've heard that you're interested in mechanical toys." When Mace nodded again, Lucien pulled a cone-shaped silver object from his pocket. "Have you ever seen anything like this? Look through the small end."

Mace raised the cone to his eye and peered inside, then sucked his breath in. "Fascinating. It holds some kind of lens that breaks the world into a number of identical images?"

"Exactly." Lucien drew a second one from his pocket and looked through it. The room immediately splintered into multiple images. "I know a natural philosopher who is interested in insects. He once told me that dragonflies have faceted eyes and must see this way. It sounded intriguing, so I decided to try to reproduce the effect. A lens grinder made these lenses to my specifications, and I had them mounted. For lack of a better name, I call it a dragonfly lens."

He blinked when his casual sweep of the room brought Sally into view. A dozen pairs of lush breasts swayed before him, and a dozen slim waists. The effect was rather overpowering.

"Do you make other mechanical curiosities?" Mace asked.

Lucien lowered the dragonfly lens, reducing Sally to singularity again. "I design and build the mechanisms myself, but I have a silversmith make the exteriors."

"I do the same." Mace gave a small, secretive smile. "Over the years I have created a collection of mechanical devices that is utterly unique. Perhaps I'll show them to you some day."

When he tried to return the dragonfly lens, Lucien waved it away. "Keep it if you like. I had several made."

"Thank you." Mace regarded Lucien thoughtfully. "Would like to attend the next time we have a ritual?"

Success. "I'd be delighted."

Mace raised the lens again and studied Sally. "A rather overblown female. The girl who is usually here is more to my taste-slimmer, less vulgar."

"That's another thing we have in common."

A man approached to talk to Mace, so Lucien relinquished his seat. Tankard in hand, he surveyed his companions. Most of the Hellions reminded him of boisterous university students, more wild than wicked. Across the room a very drunk youth unbuttoned his breeches and said brashly, "See what I have for you, Sally?"

After one bored glance, she retorted, "I've seen better." In the howls of laughter that followed, the beet-faced young man buttoned himself while the barmaid sauntered from the room.

Lucien grinned, then turned his attention to the older Hellions, who included some of London's most notorious rakes. Several were sitting together, so he joined them when Sir James Westley beckoned.

"Glad to see you, Strathmore. Wanted to say how much I enjoyed the visit to Bourne Castle." The stout baronet gave a slight hiccup, then chased it with a mouthful of punch. "Good of you to arrange it with Candover. I've seen him give setdowns that would fell an elephant, but he was a very amiable host."

His neighbor was Lord Nunfield, a cousin of Mace and Roderick Harford who shared the same lanky build. In a bored drawl he said, "You're fortunate to have a friend who lives in such good hunting country, Strathmore." His mouth curled into a characteristic sneer. "I understand that you and Candover have been the closest of friends since school days."

The sexual innuendo was unmistakable. With deliberate ambiguity, Lucien said, "You know what school is like."

"Boys will be boys," agreed Harford. His gaze went to the barmaid, whose breasts bobbled delightfully as she poured punch at a nearby table. "But I think schools should have female students as well. It would make lessons much more interesting."

A spark of interest showed in the eyes of Lord Chiswick, the last man at the table. The son of a bishop, he had devoted his life to breaking as many of the Ten Commandments as possible. "I've been getting bored with false nuns. It might be amusing if our little playmates dressed as schoolgirls at the next service. A delightful contrast of innocence and experience."

Harford nodded thoughtfully. "Worth considering. Makes me think of the gamekeeper's daughter, when I was fourteen." He began to describe the encounter in detail that was as graphic as it was tedious. His anecdote was followed by reminiscences from the others. Even Lucien contributed a story, though his was fabricated from whole cloth; it was not his custom to discuss his affairs with anyone.

It was a dull evening, with the conversation seldom rising above the waist. However, from Lucien's point of view the time was well spent By the time midnight struck, all of the Hellions seemed to have accepted him as one of their kind.

To counter boredom, he kept an idle eye on Sally during her frequent comings and goings. Tart and teasing, she was expert at amusing her customers while dodging occasional groping hands. She was hardly the sort of female who usually caught his fancy, but something about her intrigued him, an elusive sense of familiarity. Perhaps he had seen her somewhere before.

By one in the morning, most of the Hellions had left and Lucien was thinking that it was time to go home himself. Then he saw the most vocal of her youthful admirers, Lord Ives, lurch to his feet and purposefully follow the barmaid out of the room. Though she seemed quite capable of taking care of herself, Lucien was unable to suppress his protective instincts. After saying good night to those of his companions who were still awake, he rose and quietly followed Sally and Ives.

The old tavern was a maze of flagstoned passages.

Briskly the barmaid went down one, heels tapping, and turned left, then left again, ending in a storeroom half filled with kegs. Apparently unaware that Ives was close behind her, she set her candle on a keg, then stooped to draw off a pitcher of ale.

Lucien paused in the shadowed passage. If his assistance wasn't needed, he would fade away. It would be bad for his pose as a rake if he kept defending beleaguered damsels, and where the Hellions went, damsels appeared to be beleaguered regularly.

As the barmaid straightened, Ives asked in a slurred voice, "If you won't run off with me, pretty Sally, will you at least give me a quick tumble before I go home?"

She started, the ale sloshing from her pitcher, then said good-naturedly, "Even if I was willing, which I'm not, I doubt you'd be much use to me, lad. Alcohol may increase the desire, but it takes away the ability."

Lucien was startled to hear a Shakespearean quote from a barmaid. Still, there was no reason why Sally shouldn't enjoy the Bard as much as an aristocrat.

Less literary, Ives said, "If you doubt my ability, try me and I'll prove otherwise."

Her carroty curls bobbed as she shook her head. "My man is called Killer Caine, and he wouldn't like it one bit if I spread myself around." She gave Ives a playful push. "You go home to your bed, lad, and sleep off the punch alone."

"Give me a kiss, then. Just a kiss."

Before she could reply, he pulled her into an embrace, his mouth crushing hers and one hand squeezing her bounteous breast. Lucien guessed that Ives meant no real harm, but in his drunkenness he didn't realize his own strength, or notice that the woman was struggling to escape. Unpleasantly reminded of the chambermaid at Bourne Castle, Lucien decided to intervene.

He started forward, but before he could enter the storeroom, Sally stamped hard on her admirer's foot.

"Ouch!" Ives yelped and raised his head. Keeping his hand on her breast, he asked reproachfully, "Why did you do that?"

"To get rid of you, lad," Sally said breathlessly.

"Don't go," he pleaded, his hand kneading the ripe globe that filled his palm.

She shoved against his chest and managed to break his hold. Before he could embrace her again, she snapped, " Tisn't me you want, it's these."

Reaching into her bodice, she wrenched out an enormous bust improver and threw it into her assailant's face. "Have a good time, lad."

Ives released Sally and rocked back on his heels as the soft, pillowlike object bounced off his nose and fell to the floor. After staring in befuddlement at the undulating cotton curves, he raised his gaze to the barmaid. The folds of her bodice now fell loosely over a chest of modest dimensions.

To his credit, the young man began laughing. "You're a false-hearted woman, Sally."

"It's not me heart that's false," she said pertly. "Now get along with you so I can do my work."

"I'm sorry-I behaved badly," he said. "Will you be here next time the Hellions meet?"

She shrugged. "Maybe yes, and maybe no."

Blowing her a kiss, Ives left the storeroom by the other door, which led toward the front of the tavern. Sally was watching him go when she heard Lucien's chuckle. She jumped, then spun and spotted him in the shadows. "If it isn't old Lucifer himself," she said waspishly. "Did you enjoy the show?"

"Immensely." He moved forward into the storeroom. "I had thought you might need help, but obviously I was mistaken."

"Lucifer to the rescue?" she said with heavy sarcasm. "And 'ere I thought you wanted a piece of my padded arse."

Now that the bust improver was gone, it was obvious that only her slim waist had been natural. Take away the hip padding and she would have a lithe, feminine form that Lucien found more appealing than her exaggerated cotton curves. "Why do you conceal a figure that is perfectly pleasing as it is?"

"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 unpitted, and he guessed that she was younger than he had 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 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.