Dancing on the Wind

by Mary Jo Putney

  She smiled at Strathmore's concentration. He did not look menacing. Yet even though he had treated her with courtesy—chivalry, in fact—he alarmed her. He was a man of mysterious depths, and she sensed that ruthlessness was as much a part of his nature as charm.

  She lifted the last of the toys, wrapped it in one of the squares of velvet that had fallen from the box, and packed it with its fellows. Then she got to her feet and returned the box to the linen drawer. Apparently there was still quite a bit of Emmie the chambermaid in her. Having tidied up, she said, "Good night, Lord Strathmore. I can't thank you enough for your help."

  He had also risen and was studying her face with uncomfortable perception. She wondered uneasily if he suspected that she had been lying through her teeth about her mythical brother and his gambling debt.

  "I want to see you again," he said quietly.

  His words were more startling than an accusation would have been. Her heart jumped, partly from fear, more because of the shocking knowledge that she also would like to see him. After reminding herself of all the reasons why she couldn't, she said calmly, "That isn't feasible, my lord."

  His brows arched, making him look more than ever like Lucifer. "Why not?"

  "Because I will not be your mistress, and there is no other possible relationship between us."

  Amusement gleamed in his eyes, making them seem more gold than green. "You accuse me unjustly. I haven't made an improper suggestion since I found out that you weren't really a whore. Why can't we be friends?"

  It had been easier to deal with the Hellions who merely assaulted her body. She took an unobtrusive step backward. "Friendship between men and women is rare at the best of times, and nonexistent between those of unequal station. I don't move in the same circles you do, my lord, so we cannot be friends."

  "Nonsense," he replied, undeterred. "You're obviously of good birth, and while, as you pointed out, my reputation is hardly pristine, I'm still considered socially acceptable. Let me know where to find you, and I will arrange as proper an introduction as anyone could want."

  Deciding to take the offensive, she asked bluntly, "What do you want of me, Lord Strathmore?"

  "I honestly don't know," he said slowly. "But I intend to find out."

  "Prepare yourself for disappointment." She walked around him and headed toward the door. "Unless you are going to hold me prisoner, I will leave now."

  "Wait," he ordered.

  She stopped, nerves jumping, knowing that she was entirely at his mercy.

  To her relief, he said only, "I'll take you downstairs. It wouldn't be safe for you to go alone."

  He was right, she silently acknowledged. It was too late to search any more rooms. By this time the first stage of the orgy must be over, and those of the Hellions who could still walk would be heading for the comfort of their own chambers. One of them might be in the mood for a new bedmate.

  "Very well," she agreed. "I came in through the library and left the door open so I could leave the same way."

  He untied his cravat and tossed it aside, then peeled off his coat. As he started undoing the buttons at the throat of his shirt, he saw her alarmed expression and interpreted it accurately. "We must look as if we have been improperly engaged," he explained, a smile lurking in his eyes.

  With his blond hair tousled and his shirt falling open to reveal his broad chest, he was the very portrait of a rake, the kind of man no woman could resist. And he knew how he affected her, damn him. Alone together in this room, both in dishabille, there was almost as much intimacy as if they were lovers in truth.

  He surveyed her critically. "You need to look more debauched." He pulled down one of her sleeves. Since the back of her bodice was still untied, the fabric slid easily, exposing her left shoulder. When his fingers skimmed her bare flesh she almost jumped out of her skin.

  Feeling her reaction, he hesitated, as if tempted to turn his attempt at camouflage into a caress. The moment hung suspended between them.

  Finally, to her relief, he moved away and opened the door. After scanning the hall, he draped an arm around her shoulders and steered her out.

  Voices could be heard in the distance, but there was no one in sight. Getting into the spirit, she wrapped an arm around his lean waist and tried to look like a satisfied doxy. It was easy to act the part when his warm body was twined around hers. His closeness fueled the fire that had been kindled by his earlier kiss.

  Grimly she reminded herself that she only had to hang on to the rags of her composure for a few more minutes. Then she would be free of her alarming companion.

  On the ground floor they passed one of the Hellions with a half-naked woman supporting him as the couple headed for the stairs. In the dim light, she had no idea who the man was. A wavering tenor and soprano duet sounded from the drawing room as they passed, singing a song that Kit guessed would be horribly embarrassing if she understood what all of the words meant. But as Strathmore had predicted, she was safe with him. At least, safe from other men; the earl himself was another matter.

  She broke away as soon as they entered the library and retrieved the cloak she had hidden behind the sofa. When she was safely swaddled in its folds, she parted the draperies and opened the French doors. The night air was piercingly cold.

  He said softly, "I assume that you have a horse or carriage waiting to take you safely away?"

  She studied his face. In the moonlight he had a cool, unearthly beauty. What would have happened if they had chanced to meet in a normal, uncomplicated way? Probably he would not even have noticed her. "I have, my lord. You need not concern yourself about my welfare any longer."

  Before she could step outside, he caught her shoulders and drew her to him. "My name is Lucien." Then he bent his head and kissed her with calm possessiveness.

  How quickly a presumptuous male embrace came to seem natural, then desirable. Her heartbeat accelerated as she kissed him back. Quite clearly she knew that she would never forget this moment or this man. The intimacy of male nearness, the erotic contrast of icy breeze and warm flesh, the soft caress of his breath on her temple when he released her—all were graven on her soul.

  "I wonder if your name is really Jane," he said pensively. "Probably not, but no matter. I shall discover who you really are."

  His matter-of-factness was the most unnerving aspect of a thoroughly unnerving encounter. "No, you won't," she retorted as fear overcame the haze of sensuality that had enveloped her. "Thank you again, my lord, and good-bye. There is no room in my life for you."

  "You will make room," he said with absolute assurance. "Until next time, my dear."

  She slipped away into the night, pulses pounding as she thought about what he had said about "dancing on the wind." The phrase was a euphemism for dying on the scaffold, which was certainly a possibility if she continued her criminal activities.

  But the words also described her quest. She felt as if she were dancing frantically in midair, struggling to stay aloft in a precarious situation where the least misstep would send her plunging to her doom. For that reason, the enigmatic earl was dangerous, for he caused her to lose her balance. She hoped to heaven that their paths would not cross again.

  Interlude

  The silent, stone-faced maid came, which meant that it was time to prepare herself. After stripping off her regular clothing, she drew on a translucent black silk chemise that left half her breasts bare and fell only to mid-thigh. Then the maid helped her into the black brocade corset, pulling the laces so tightly she could scarcely breathe.

  Next came the black lace stockings that tied to her corset with scarlet ribbons. The long boots over them were made of supple black leather that clung to the curve of her calves. The boots had been specially made with high, thin heels that were difficult to walk in.

  She sat still while the maid covered her light brown hair with a luxuriant red wig so long that it brushed her backside. Rouge to make her lips full and cruel and to bring a hectic flush to her pale cheeks. La
st of all a black half mask with eyeslits cut at a wicked angle, and elbow-length black kid gloves.

  She stood and examined her appearance in the mirror. All black, white, and scarlet, she was a caricature of femaleness with a tiny waist that exaggerated her breasts and hips and indecently long legs. The maid gave a nod of approval and left.

  To prepare herself mentally, she stared at the clever, loathsome mechanical device she had been given and thought of what she must do. When she was as ready as she would ever be, she went into the next room and began lighting the dozens of candles that clustered on every surface. When they were all lit, the room had the orange glow of an antechamber to hell.

  He would arrive soon. She picked up the whip and gave it an experimental flick. Perfectly balanced. All was in readiness for her premiere. Yet still she tensed when the key turned in the lock. In spite of her study, there was much she did not know.

  Quickly she turned her back to the door, as if utterly indifferent. She sensed his entry, heard the key turn again behind him, and listened to the heaviness of his breathing. She toyed with a long tress of false red hair, making him wait.

  When his impatience got the best of him, he said huskily, "I am here, mistress. What is your bidding?"

  Slowly she turned, using her body to express arrogance, contempt, dominance. He watched her with avid eyes.

  When he tried to speak again, she snarled, "Silence!"

  The whip twitched in her hand like the tail of an angry cat. As the tension built, sweat appeared on his face and white became visible all around his irises.

  With a sudden, fierce movement of her arm, she slashed out with the whip. The vicious crack shattered the suffocating silence. She caught his gaze and said with deadly menace, "Kneel, slave."

  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, half 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 green room 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 w
as 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 deliriously 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.