Dancing on the Wind

Chapter 7

Kit awoke from sleep with a cry. Her heart hammered as she tried to remember the nightmare, but already it was dissolving into fragmentary images. She stared at her hands, hah? surprised to see them bare rather than clad in black leather.

There had been something important in the dream- desperately important-but it was gone beyond recall. She lit the bedside candle with shaking fingers. The clock showed a little after midnight. She slid from the bed. Her legs folded under her, and she fell to her knees, head spinning. Every bit of energy had been drained away, leaving her helpless as a babe.

When the world around her steadied, she got clumsily to her feet and pulled a robe over her nightgown. Then she went to the kitchen and set a kettle over the fire. Viola, who had been sleeping on the bed, strolled into the kitchen with a questioning meow. Kit scooped the cat up and cuddled her. The warm feline body eased her shattering sense of loneliness, but not enough.

As she waited for the kettle to boil, she heard the front door of the house open. It had to be Cleo Farnsworth, whose presence would be a blessing just now. Kit set the cat down, then hastened across the drawing room and unlocked her door. When she peered into the common hallway, she saw that Cleo, a shapely blonde in her early twenties, was halfway up the steps.

"Good evening, Cleo." Kit tried not to sound forlorn. "Would you like a cup of tea and a bite to eat?"

"Don't mind if I do. There's nothing like treading the boards to give one an appetite." The actress came down the steps and frowned. "You're up very late. Is something wrong?"

Kit was tempted to pour out all her woes, but she managed to control the impulse. "Only a nightmare," she said as she led the way into the flat. "I'm so tired. I feel as if I'm living three different lives, each of them exhausting."

"Well, you are. You've had a busy fortnight."

"It seems like much longer." Kit warmed the teapot and poured boiling water over the tea leaves, then set out cheese, pickled onions, and some sausage rolls that she'd bought at a bake shop. "How did tonight's performance go?"

Cleo shrugged. "Middling. The theater was only half full. I told Whitby it was too soon to stage The Magistrate again, but he never pays attention to mere females. I got a good bit of applause for my part, though."

After making short work of a wedge of cheese, two sausage rolls, and half a dozen pickled onions, Cleo pushed back her chair and gave a small, ladylike burp. "Have you decided what you're going to do next?"

"Based on my investigations so far, there are several men whom I consider to be the most likely suspects," Kit replied. "Mr. Jones has supplied me with their London addresses, so I will search the lodgings of each."

"Oh, Kit!" Cleo exclaimed. "That's even more dangerous than what you've been doing. Can't Mr. Jones find a nice reliable burglar who can do the searching for you?"

Kit smiled a little. "I doubt if there are any reliable burglars. Besides, no one but me can find what I'm looking for, because I'm not sure what it is."

"I suppose you're right," the actress admitted. "But how will you do it? Even though Mr. Jones has taught you how to pick locks, you'll still run the risk of walking into servants."

"I'll go over the roofs and through the upper windows. Growing up wild in the country made me quite a good athlete."

Cleo shuddered. "I don't even want to think about it. Still, you've managed so far. Pray God your luck holds."

"My luck has been erratic." Kit fed a bit of cheese to Viola, who lurked hopefully under the table. "It wasn't so bad when two of the Hellions tried to maul me-they had no idea that I wasn't what I seemed. But one of the cleverer ones caught me rifling his room at Lord Chiswick's and recognized me from earlier encounters. He let me go after I spun a farrago of lies. I don't think he'll mention me to the others, but since he thinks my problem is solved, I'll be in trouble if he sees me again."

Cleo chuckled. "If that happens, I'm sure you can come up with another convincing tale. Who was the gentleman?"

"The Earl of Strathmore."

"Strathmore!" Cleo's expressive brows shot upward. "Old Lucifer himself. You do like to live dangerously."

"You know everything about everyone." Kit started to rub the itchy patch on her inner thigh, then stopped herself. She couldn't risk scarring. "What do you know about him?"

"I don't know much, but there's no shortage of rumors," Cleo said slowly. "He drifts through all levels of society, from the lowest to the highest. Though he's no gamester, when he gambles he has the devil's own luck, and they say he's ruined more than one man. He was considered one of the greatest catches in the marriage mart when he was younger, but I've heard that the hopeful mamas have given up on him. One has to wonder why, since he's rich, handsome, and eligible."

"None of that sounds very wicked."

"It's true that gossip of that sort doesn't mean much," Cleo agreed. "More worrisome is the fact that once or twice well-born gentlemen have vanished from society without a trace. I heard it suggested that Strathmore might have had something to do with the disappearances, but since he has friends in high places, no one dares accuse him openly."

It was not what Kit wanted to hear. Her mouth tightened. "So he may be a kidnapper, murderer, or worse."

"Perhaps." Cleo's expression turned pensive. "I met him once in the greenroom and liked him. A very witty man. He could have charmed any woman there into his bed, yet he didn't. I thought it strange, since few gentlemen will pass up a comely actress." Her face became grave. "Don't let him catch you again, Kit. He's a deep one and no mistake. I wouldn't rule out him being the one you're after."

"I liked him, too." Kit emptied the last of the tea into her cup. "Unfortunately."

"How are you coming with your dancing?"

The mere thought made Kit feel even more tired. "I think I have the steps down," she said without enthusiasm.

"Show me."

Kit blinked. "At one o'clock in the morning with me in my nightgown?"

Cleo grinned. "Why not? I'll hum the music." She rose and went into the drawing room and flopped into a chair, then began a wordless croon, her trained voice filling the chamber.

Feeling self-conscious, Kit belted her robe more tightly, then began dancing. It was a lively jig, and as she moved through the steps she began feeling stronger.

When she finished, Cleo said critically, "Not bad, but this time with more spirit. And show some leg, it's what the gentlemen come to see." She began humming again, this time clapping strongly to the beat.

Kit turned her thoughts inward for a moment, telling herself that she was an irresistible coquette, a man's deliciously seductive fantasy. She imagined Lucien Fairchild watching her, his eyes golden with desire____________________

A wave of heat coursed through her at the thought. She began to whirl about the drawing room, narrowly escaping collisions with the furniture. This time she submerged herself in the music, stamping her heels and spinning so that her robe soared above her knees. She ended with a flourish that changed Cleo's hand claps into real applause.

"Well done, Kit! You'll be a great success."

Kit's temporary high spirits began to fade. Perhaps her dancing would be successful, but that was the least important of her goals. Time was passing with frightening speed, and the crucial, life-or-death goal was as elusive as ever.

Lucien sat down at his desk to outline what he had learned in his investigation of the Hellions, but his pencil strayed and he began sketching. He had a knack for drawing that was useful when he designed his mechanical toys. What emerged on the paper this time was no penguin, but a woman's face.

When he was done, he studied the result. Lady Nemesis, as intriguing as she was elusive.

Mentally he called her Jane, since that was her most recent name. Though they had met three times and shared two really superior kisses, he wasn't sure exactly what she looked like. Were her cheekbones really that high, or had that been a trick of her skillful cosmetics? Was her face a perfect oval, or a little longer? And her mouth-touch had proved the softness of her lips, but he couldn't define the precise shape. The only thing he could swear to was the slim, graceful figure which he found more alluring than Sally the barmaid's artificial curves.

He tried sketching her several ways before giving up. None of the drawings seemed quite right. It was maddening to know that he might pass her on the street without recognizing her.

With a sigh, he leaned.back in his chair and propped his feet on the desk. The blasted female was becoming an obsession. He had said that he would find her and he would, though locating a nameless young woman who might be anywhere in Great Britain was akin to searching for a black cat in a cellar at midnight.

But after he found her, what the devil was he to do with her? The raging lust he had felt at Chiswick's had subsided to a manageable level, but he still wanted to bed her and the consequences be damned. He had been depressed before and he would be again; at least brave, clever Jane would be worth the emotional price. But one did not seduce well-born virgins, which she certainly was, in spite of her devious actions.

Women like her were the sort one married.

Which meant that he had no right to seek her out. His gaze went to the sketch of himself and Elinor. He had long ago decided that he would never marry unless he found a woman with whom he could share the profound emotional intimacy that had been absent from his life for so long.

He would be a happier man if he had never known such closeness. Yet though he still ached for the loss, he could not be sorry that he had once had it.

He was returning to business when his butler entered to announce "Lord Aberdare is here to see you, my lord."

"Nicholas!" Lucien rose and shook the hand of his friend, who had entered on the butler's heels. "I didn't know you were coming to London."

"No more did I. But Rafe summoned me here for that vote about the peace negotiations in Ghent that he is putting before the House of Lords."

"Good Lord, he brought you all the way from Wales for that?" Lucien waved his guest to a chair as he reseated himself. "Mind you, Rafe is right-since the war with the Americans has turned into a stalemate, it makes no sense for Britain to demand territorial concessions. Rafe's resolution requests that the government soften its position and accept existing boundaries, which is the only way a settlement will be reached. But even if the resolution passes, it won't carry the force of law."

"True, but when the House of Lords barks, the government listens, and Rafe needs every vote he can get. That's why he sent for me." Nicholas dropped casually into a chair and stretched out his legs. "It's time to put an end to a war that never should have started in the first place."

"That's certainly true. It was mad to slide into a brawl with the United States when we were fighting for our lives against Napoleon. The sooner we make peace, the better."

"Particularly since our upstart cousins have begun winning the battles," Nicholas said wryly.

Lucien asked, "How is my favorite countess?"

"Clare is as calm as always." Nicholas gave a rueful smile. "I'm the one who is quivering with nerves. She claims that there is no reason to worry because she comes from a long line of sturdy peasant women who were back in the fields cutting hay half an hour after giving birth. No doubt she's right, but I'll be glad when the baby has arrived."

Lucien pulled the mechanical penguin from a drawer. "I made this as a christening gift. You can take it back to Wales with you now."

"What have you done this time?" Nicholas wound the key. When the penguin started doing backflips, Nicholas collapsed back in his chair, helpless with laughter. "What a strange and wonderful mind you have, Luce," he gasped when he could speak again. "Clare will love it. But what will you do to match this if we have other children?"

"Penguins can do other things. Swim. Slide on their bellies. Dance. We'll see when the time comes."

Nicholas reached for the penguin again. As he did, he saw the sketches of Jane that lay on the desk. He lifted one and studied it. "An interesting face. Full of character and intelligence. Are you love-smitten?"

"Absolutely not," Lucien said repressively. "That is merely a female who is more trouble than a sackful of cats."

His friend chuckled. "Sounds promising. When can we expect an interesting announcement?"

Lucien rolled his eyes. "Don't try to persuade me of the advantages of marriage. There is only one Clare, and you found her first. Since I refuse to settle for anything less in a woman, I am condemned to spend the rest of my years a bachelor. Your children can call me Uncle Lucien and talk behind my back about my eccentricity."

Nicholas, intuitive as a cat, must have heard the bleakness under the surface levity, for he gave Lucien a sharp glance. "Apropos of nothing," he said slowly, "Clare said that the reason the Fallen Angels became so close is that none of us had a real family, so we had to invent one."

It was truth so unexpected and accurate that it momentarily silenced Lucien. At length he said, " 'Apropos of nothing,' indeed. What is it like to live with a woman who sees too much?"

"Sometimes alarming." Nicholas grinned. "Mostly wonderful."

Lucien decided that it was time to change the subject before his envy became too visible. "Have you heard any interesting news from your Gypsy kinfolk?"

Nicholas's smile faded. "That's one reason I wanted to talk to you. A distant cousin with whom I traveled on the Continent recently sent a message to Aberdare. He says that there are persistent rumors that Napoleon intends to make a triumphant return from exile."

Nicholas had spent several years wandering through Europe with his Gypsy relatives. The Rom went everywhere and heard everything, and the information he had sent back to London had been invaluable. Hoping that this time his friend might be wrong, Lucien said, "One would expect such rumors about the Corsican. He's a living legend."

"True, but this goes beyond what might be expected," Nicholas replied. "My cousin said that agents of the emperor have been moving secretly through France, testing the temper of the people, and have concluded that the majority would support the emperor again. He has also heard whispers that there are powerful men among the Allies-British, Prussian, and Austrian-who would help because they want Napoleon to return. Apparently they found war to be a profitable business."

"Jackals," Lucien said with barely suppressed violence. The fighting might have ended, but he should have remembered that greed and violence were eternal. It was time to stop thinking about an elusive lady and concentrate on his real work. "Likely the rumors are no more than speculation and idle talk, but one can't take chances. I'll make inquiries. I'll also send word to my counterparts in Prussia and Austria. If there is a plan afoot to restore the emperor, perhaps it can be nipped in the bud."

"I hope so," Nicholas said gravely. "I surely do hope so."

The night was darkly overcast, but dry, perfect for criminal activity. Dressed entirely in black men's clothing and supplied with thin, strong rope and a grappling hook, Kit launched her career as a burglar at the town house of Lord Nunfield. The sardonic, amoral nobleman was one of her prime suspects.

The house next to his was temporarily vacant, so she was able to scale it without fear of being heard. From there it was simple to cross to the roof of Nunfield's house.

Lights in the basement indicated that the servants were spending a quiet evening in their own sitting room. The upper house was dark. After securing her rope around a chimney, Kit looped the line around her body and lowered herself to the level of a back window. It was strenuous work, even for a someone who had always been athletic to a most unladylike degree.

Luckily, the window she had chosen was fastened with a simple latch she could open with a knife. She paused to catch her breath inside, for she was panting heavily, as much from nerves as from exertion. This time if she was caught, there would be no way she could explain away her presence.

When her pulse steadied, she set to work. She had become adept at searching, and she was able to go through the upper floors of Lord Nunfield's modest dwelling very quickly. Though she paid particular attention to the master's bedchamber, she checked every room.

It all went flawlessly. Unfortunately, she found nothing of interest. By the time she leaned out the window and caught her dangling rope, she was inclined to think that Nunfield was not her man. Her next sortie would be to the town house of Lord Mace.

As she scrambled up onto the roof, she told herself that the evening had been successful in one respect: this time she hadn't been caught by the alarming Lord Strathmore.

For that, at least, she could be grateful.

Rafe's proposal to make a speedy settlement with the United States brought a surprisingly large number of peers to the House of Lords. The issue produced a brisk and occasionally virulent debate. Rafe himself was eloquent in promoting his resolution, and Lucien and Nicholas also gave brief speeches of support.

Debate continued until past midnight. When the matter was put to the vote, Rafe waited stone-faced, as if indifferent to the result. Lucien sat on his friend's right and kept a running tally of the results. It was going to be close, very close, and the chamber was silent with tension.

The resolution carried by a single vote. As a babble of voices rose, Rafe permitted himself a jubilant smile. "A good thing you came, Nicholas."

"Let's hope the resolution does some good." Nicholas clapped Rafe on the shoulder. "Well done. I was afraid that the crush-the-colonials crowd would win."

Rafe turned to Lucien. "Care to come to my house to celebrate? Perhaps we can do a little plotting about other kinds of pressure that might be brought to bear on the government."

"I'll join you later." Lucien scanned the crowded chamber. "There are some people I want to say hello to."

Lucien had not been surprised to see that Mace and Nunfield had attended, nor that they voted against the measure. He made his way through the crowd of peers to them.

Mace raised his brows when Lucien joined them. "You really favor surrendering to that rabble of Americans?"

"The issue is not surrender but compromise," Lucien said as they stepped to one side of the stream of men exiting from the chamber. "I see no point in continuing a useless war."

"It sounds as if you have dangerously liberal tendencies," Nunfield said with mock horror. "You probably read radicals like Leigh Hunt and L. J. Knight and agree with them."

"Sometimes I do." Lucien gestured at the crowd. "Peace shouldn't be a radical issue. Most people here have relatives on the other side of the Atlantic. I do myself. We should be making the Americans our friends, not burning their capital."

"It's true that they gave us tobacco, and for that we owe them something. Speaking of tobacco…" Mace produced a gilt snuffbox and opened it with an elegant flip of his left hand. After inhaling a pinch, he gave a sigh of pleasure. "Delightful. Almost as pleasing as nitrous oxide. Have you ever tried that?"

Though Mace's expression was casual, there was a note in his voice that made Lucien realize that the question was significant. "No, but I've heard of it, of course. I understand that inhaling the gas produces an effect like intoxication, only without the headache the next day."

"It's even better," Mace assured him. "Unlike alcohol, which often makes one morose, nitrous puts a man quite in charity with the world. That's why it's sometimes called laughing gas. I have a chemist who makes nitrous for me, and occasionally I invite a few friends over to enjoy it with me. In fact, I'm doing so tomorrow night. Care to join us?"

"I'd love to," Lucien replied, not entirely truthfully. "It's one of those things I've always wanted to try."

"Until tomorrow, then." Mace nodded and went on his way.

As Lucien went in search of Rafe and Nicholas, he permitted himself an inward smile of satisfaction. Nitrous oxide had a reputation for loosening tongues and inhibitions, so he might learn some interesting things from other guests at the party. By the same token, he would have to make sure that Mace didn't learn anything from him. A good thing that Lucien was experienced at keeping his own counsel.