Dancing on the Wind

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 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.

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.

Lucien set the redhead back on her feet and rose from the chair. Then he put his arm around her shoulders and guided her out of the dining room and into the hall beyond.

"You don't like an audience, ducks? Can't say that I do, either." She cuddled close and began expertly caressing him.

It was almost enough to overset his resolution, but not quite. "Sorry, Lizzie, but tonight I'd rather sleep alone." Gently he detached himself. "I took a hard fall when hunting today and have bruises in all sorts of uncomfortable places."

"Are you sure?" she said coaxingly. "I have to do someone, and you're the best of the lot."

Noticing faint circles under her eyes, he suggested, "Why don't you get some rest, too?"

She hesitated. "If the truth be known, I've had a tiring day and wouldn't mind a solid night's sleep. Still, business is business, and Lord Chiswick likes to get his money's worth."

"Tomorrow I'll tell the others how sensational you were. Chiswick will never know otherwise."

She grinned. "Very well-it will be our secret." Her gaze ran over him admiringly. "I owe you one, ducks. Come see me sometime when we're both feeling more in the mood. Lizzie LaRiche-look for me in the lobby of the Theatre Royal."

He bid her good night and headed to his room, not without a pang of regret. She was an appealing wench, and perhaps he would seek her out the next time lust overcame prudence.

To his surprise a sliver of light showed under the door of his bedchamber. He entered quietly and saw a tall female form on the far side of the room. He assumed she was a chambermaid until he saw the rouge and translucent evening gown. It was another of Chiswick's doxies, this time a tousled blonde. He repressed a sigh; there was such a thing as too much hospitality. His ability to kick pretty girls out of his bed was not unlimited, so perhaps he should surrender to the inevitable.

His amusement evaporated when he realized that she was searching his clothes press. After checking the hanging garments, she closed the upper doors and turned her attention to the linen drawer. There she found a box containing several of his mechanical devices, which he had brought to show Lord Mace.

Before she could open it, he said coldly, "If you're looking for money, you won't find any there."

The girl dropped the box, which fell to the floor and broke open, spilling the contents across the floor. As she whirled toward him, her wayward golden curls danced around her face and her eyes widened with shock. He might have been sympathetic if she hadn't been caught red-handed in the act of theft.

He closed the door behind him, then folded his arms and leaned against it. "Do you always steal from your customers?"

"I… I wasn't stealing, my lord." Her low, pleasant voice had a broad Yorkshire accent.

"Of course not," he said dryly. "You merely got lost and made a wrong turn into my armoire."

She stared down at her clenched hands. "I… I was seeking Mr. Harford and didn't know what room he was in, so I looked in the press to see if I could recognize any of the clothes as his."

Perhaps it was true, though he doubted it. However, he thought he had stopped her in time. That scanty costume couldn't be concealing much in the way of stolen goods- it didn't even conceal much of her. He studied her appreciatively. It was hard to be outraged with a woman with such long, elegant legs. "I doubt that Harford is in need of your services. When I last saw him, he was engaged with one of your colleagues."

"Oh." After an awkward pause, she said, "I arrived here late-Lord Chiswick will be cross with me."

Thinking of Chiswick and the blondes, Lucien said, "I doubt that he will notice your absence any time soon."

"Still, I had best find him. I'm sorry I accidentally came into your room. Truly, I wouldn't have taken anything." She began walking toward him, confident that he would step away from the door and let her leave. "Good night, my lord."

He didn't move. As he watched her supple movements, the desire that had been simmering for days began burning hotter, curling through his veins and quickening his pulse. Though the girl was not as flamboyantly attractive as Lizzie, something about her intrigued him. Perhaps it was the improbable contrast of shyness and worldly appearance. Or perhaps it was a quiet dignity that was visible even in these circumstances.

The reasons were unimportant; what mattered was that the longer he looked at her, the less he cared about the consequences of passion. "Since Harford isn't available, you can stay and earn your fee with me."

His words dropped into the silence like a pebble into a pond, sending ripples in all directions. Kit stopped in her tracks. She had been right to fear Strathmore, for his feline, green-gold gaze was mesmerizing. Her pulse accelerated, and she was uncertain whether the cause was fear or anticipation.

He held out his hand. "Come here," he said in a deep, easy voice.

She wanted to run. Instead, as if it had a will of its own, her hand lifted and grasped his. His long fingers twined around hers, and he drew her into his embrace.

She had known this man would be different, and he was. Instead of mauling her, he held her lightly, smoothing her unruly curls, stroking her back, resting his cheek against her hair while she became accustomed to his touch. Her eyes closed. Warmth. Strength. A subtle eroticism that ravished her senses. Slowly her body softened and molded to his.

"What's your name?" he murmured.

She didn't reply, for doing so would destroy the moment. For the first time since starting her quest, she felt safe. She had been so alone, so afraid…

He lifted her chin for a kiss. A shiver went through her when their lips touched. Though the kiss was undemanding, she could not have broken away to save her life. It deepened, became a voluptuous mating of lips and tongues, a harmony of pulses. Without an iota of physical force, he was melting her resistance.

The spell shattered when she felt his warm palms on her bare shoulders. Good Lord, he had untied the tapes that secured the back of her bodice, then drawn down the flimsy sleeves of her gown. If she didn't stop him, she'd soon be naked. And it wasn't only her clothing he was stripping away, but her defenses and her sense of purpose. How could she have so easily forgotten that he was one of the enemy? It was not an accident that he was called Lucifer.

With a choked gasp, she shoved herself away, the heels of her hands hard against his chest. "I must go." She tugged her sleeves up again. "I… I was engaged especially for Mr. Harford. If he releases me from that obligation, I'll return."

She slipped around him and moved toward the door. In another moment, she would be free____________________