It was not an insight he was proud of. Yet if he had another opportunity to make love to her, he suspected he would behave exactly the same way.
His mind skipped to an incident from his university days. An aristocratic bully at Christ Church College had issued a challenge to another student, a mild young man named Whitman who had had the temerity to disagree with the bully. Though Whitman had no experience of dueling, honor demanded that he accept the challenge even though injury or death was the likely outcome.
The approaching duel had become known among other students. Everyone deplored a match that would be so uneven, but because of the gentlemen's code, no one would intervene, except Lucien. A little investigation had revealed that the bully had sexual preferences that would have ruined him in society forever. Lucien had used that knowledge ruthlessly to blackmail the bully into dropping the challenge and issuing an apology to Whitman.
By chance Rafe had learned of Lucien's role in preventing the duel. Gray eyes cool and thoughtful, he had said, "You really are rather amoral, aren't you?"
The remark had not been offered as condemnation—Rafe had been glad when the duel was stopped—but as impartial assessment. Nonetheless, the words had stung. It was a tribute to the power of friendship that their relationship had been unaffected.
And, of course, Rafe had been right. Though Lucien did not consider himself to be without honor, he had never hesitated to set honor aside for what he considered a good reason. That trait had made him an excellent spymaster, but it was clear proof that being able to trace one's noble ancestors to the Norman Conquest and beyond did not make a man a true gentleman.
With a wry smile, he went into the corridor and headed toward his own box. Kit had the temperament of a reformer; he would provide her with ample opportunity to practice her skills.
Lucien entered his box just as the audience was settling down for the final act. Only Ives, Chiswick, and Westley were present. Chiswick cocked an amused eye at him. "You look as if you found better diversion than the second act of the play."
Not only was that true, but acknowledgment would enhance his rakish reputation. "I ran into a friend who wished to discuss politics," Lucien said blandly. "A most absorbing conversation."
"From the crushed look of your cravat, you must have entered into the discussion with enthusiasm," Sir James said slyly.
"Quite. Always an enthralling subject, politics." Lucien took his seat. "Did Mace and Nunfield lose interest in the play and leave?"
Ives said, "Yes, they asked me to offer their regrets for the defection. Nunfield said he felt an attack of luck coming on, and he had to get to a gaming table before it went away."
Lucien wondered if the departures were significant. Perhaps not, since the gentlemen in question were easily bored pleasure seekers. With a mental shrug, he turned his attention to Sir Digby Upright's clever revenge on his enemy.
At the climax of the play, Kit came on in a demure gown and tearfully confessed that the villain had forced her to appear at the ball and slander Sir Digby by threatening to send her dear old granny to debtor's prison. Her testimony sealed the villain's fate. Society applauded Sir Digby's ruthless destruction of his enemy; his comely wife welcomed him back with open arms; and the prime minister appointed him to a position with more power, prestige, and wealth than his previous one. A triumph for justice, and a very successful production for the theater. Scandal Street would probably be in the Marlowe's repertory for years to come.
Kit received special acclaim from the audience even though her part had been small. She had looked so convincingly weepy in her last scene that Lucien felt guilty. He didn't like being at odds with her, didn't like adding to the terrible strain she was enduring. He would call on her in the morning and go over some of the information on property ownership he had uncovered.
Surely, if he tried hard enough, he could keep his hands off her long enough for them to have a rational discussion.
* * *
Rather than stay for the brief farce that was to be performed after the main play, Lucien and his companions decided to go to Watier's, a club with good gambling and even better food. As their carriage clattered along Piccadilly, Lucien turned the conversation to Cassie James.
Chiswick made a number of admiring comments, sounding exactly like a man who had just seen her for the first time. Westley had also been impressed by her, though his attitude was more casual. Even to a listener as attuned to lies as Lucien, there was no hint that either man might be the kidnapper.
Lucien tried to concentrate on his subtle interrogation, but he found himself becoming more and more anxious about Kit. Though he had made arrangements to see that she got home safely, he couldn't escape the feeling that he should have escorted her himself. That was doubly true because his conversation with the remaining Hellions was proving so fruitless.
His uneasiness continued to grow as they made their way along busy Piccadilly. They were almost to Watier's when Westley's voice penetrated his abstraction. "Strathmore, are you still with us?"
Lucien's attention snapped back to the present, and he realized that someone had asked him a question. He also realized that he didn't give a damn what it was. He must go to Kit now.
He rapped on the roof for the coachman to stop. As the carriage slowed, he said, "I just realized that I forgot another engagement. I'll have to give Watier's a miss. Sorry."
Before any of the other men could comment, he leaped from the carriage and bounded across the street to catch a hackney coach that was discharging passengers. "The Marlowe Theater, please," he snapped as he climbed inside. "And there's an extra five quid in it if you make the trip in less than ten minutes."
"You've got it, guv," the driver said enthusiastically.
The coach lurched forward so quickly that Lucien had to grab a ragged strap to keep from being pitched to the floor. As he braced himself, he wondered why the devil he was so concerned.
* * *
Kit stopped in the green room, scanning faces and watching reactions, just in case. But nothing significant occurred, so after a brief stay she went to her dressing room. She was bone-weary, and not only because of her exertions on stage. Passion was exhausting, and disagreeing with Lucien even more so.
By the time she had changed into her regular clothing, Henry Jones arrived. " 'Evening, miss," he said with a respectful nod. "Are you ready to go home?"
"I certainly am."
Henry consulted his pocket watch. "Lord Strathmore's coach should be here in another fifteen or twenty minutes."
She pulled on her cloak. "I don't want to wait that long. Let's walk. It's not far, and I could use the fresh air." Brushing past the Runner, she headed toward the theater exit.
"His lordship was most particular that you should go in his coach. He's sending two armed footmen with it," Henry said as he followed her down the hall. "You might be in danger."
"If this were tomorrow night, I'd agree, but surely even the most efficient villain would have trouble organizing an abduction when he is right under Lord Strathmore's nose." When Henry showed signs of protesting again, she added, "If you will recall, I'm the one who hired you, and I want to walk."
The Runner frowned. "His lordship is not the sort I like to cross. A very forceful man."
She put on her fiercest face, the one she and Kira had perfected as children when they wanted to scare goblins under the bed. "And I am a very forceful woman, Mr. Jones. Are you coming with me or not?"
He chuckled, tacitly conceding defeat. "I'll tell the porter that we've gone so he can tell Strathmore's coachman."
The brisk air of the Strand dissipated some of her fatigue, but it could not alleviate her depression. She had been a fool to tell Lucien that he would fall in love with Kira when, God willing, they met. Of course he had been outraged; no man of honor or sensitivity could have accepted Kit's statement. But he didn't know. He didn't know.
Kit had never resented her sister's ability to effortlessly enchant every male
between the ages of two and ninety-five, mostly because there had never been a man whom Kit had really wanted for herself. Except for Philip Burke, who had visited friends in Westmoreland the summer the twins had been sixteen. He had been a handsome, witty, university student of twenty. For the first time in her life Kit had desperately wanted a man to think she was special.
But in spite of her best efforts, it was Kira who had captured Philip's fancy. He had joined the eager crowd of admirers around her and scarcely noticed Kit's existence. That had hurt a little—more than a little—but Kit had not blamed her sister. It wasn't as if Kira had deliberately tried to win Philip's regard; she had merely been her usual charming self.
With Lucien it would be much harder. There was a good chance that Kira would choose Jason because of what was already between them. In that case Lucien would doubtless feel obligated to stand by his offer to Kit. However, she could never marry him, knowing it was her sister who he really wanted—and clever though Lucien was, he would be unable to deceive her about which sister he preferred.
For one of the few times in her life, Kit wished she was not a twin. The thought vanished as quickly as it had come, for it was impossible to imagine her life without her sister. When they were very small, they had resolved not to marry unless they could find suitable twin brothers. When they were older, they had discussed how dreadful it would be for the survivor when one of them died. Solemnly, they had decided that when they were very old and feeble, they would hold hands and jump off a cliff together so that they would die at the same time.
Oh, Kira, Kira...
She shivered and tightened her cloak around her throat, feeling suddenly chilled. If her sister died, Kit knew there was a very real chance that she would jump off that cliff alone.
Chapter 31
Given the bleakness of her thoughts, Kit was grateful Henry was not disposed to chatter. They turned from the Strand into a quieter side street.
Halfway down the block, the clatter of hooves and wheels sounded behind them. A battered hackney coach rumbled past, then stopped. Idly Kit noted that the horses were unusually good for a livery vehicle. Then the door swung open and three men in half masks barreled out and charged toward Kit and her companion.
Henry barked, "Run, miss!"
He gave her a shove back toward the Strand, then pulled a pistol from beneath his coat and moved purposefully between her and the newcomers. Two ruffians lunged at Henry, and one knocked the pistol from his hand before he could fire. The third and largest swerved around the scuffle and raced toward Kit.
She bolted. Before she had taken ten steps, her pursuer grabbed her arm, bringing her to a wrenching halt. She tried to shout for help, but before she could make a sound, he clamped a hand over her mouth.
His cruel grip tilted her head back. The eyes behind his mask were as dull as pebbles—the eyes of a man who would kill a human as easily as a spider. Had he helped to kidnap Kira? Furiously Kit sank her teeth into his leathery fingers.
"You little bitch!" He walloped the side of her head with an open-palmed blow that made her vision dim. "Try that again and I'll really hurt you."
Over her assailant's shoulder she saw that Henry was wrestling with one of the men while the other stood by with a pistol, unable to shoot for fear of hitting his comrade. Then she lost sight of him as her captor started dragging her toward the coach. She fought every inch of the way, kicking and clawing, but she was no match for him.
Another coach turned into the street and began rattling toward them. Making a supreme effort, Kit chopped her assailant in the throat with the side of her hand. He made a garbling sound, and his grip loosened. She wrenched herself away, her cloak coming off in his hands. Praying that the driver or passengers would help rather than turn and flee, she darted toward the oncoming vehicle, shouting for assistance. Behind her she heard the heavy footfalls of her pursuer.
The coach ground to a halt. Even before it stopped moving, the door swung open and Lucien leaped out, his expression as fierce as the fallen archangel he was named for. He snapped, "Get behind me, Kit!"
As she obeyed, the other man grinned nastily. "Aren't you the gallant fellow," he sneered. "I eat swells like you for breakfast."
Before he could say more, Lucien whipped his cane around like a quarterstaff. The heavy gold head slammed into the ruffian's skull with an ugly, pulpy sound and he dropped into an ungainly heap.
With movements as economical as a dancer, Lucien pivoted and went to aid the Bow Street Runner. Henry was down, and the man with the pistol was aiming it when Lucien cracked his cane over the barrel of the weapon. It spun away into the gutter. Even before it clattered onto the cobblestones, the third man leaped at Lucien in a flat dive that knocked them both to the ground.
The attacker landed on top. Rather than fight, he bounded to his feet and shouted, "Time to go, mates!" He grabbed the arm of his fallen comrade and hauled him toward the coach.
Lucien rose and lunged after them, but his ankle turned under him. As he stumbled, the three attackers piled into the vehicle. The driver cracked his whip over the horses, and they took off into the night, heading away from the Strand.
Lucien swore as he got to his feet. Then he turned and limped toward Kit. "Are you all right?"
"I think so," she said shakily. She took a step toward him, then another quicker one. A moment later she was in his arms, and he was embracing her with rib-bruising force.
Now that the danger had past, her knees turned to rubber. She hid her face against his shoulder and felt the hammering of his heart gradually slow to a normal tempo.
"They were trying to kidnap you?"
After she mastered the desire to break into hysterical tears, she replied, "I think so. It was no normal robbery."
He smoothed her mussed hair back from her forehead. "Did you recognize any of the men?"
"I'm sure that none were Hellions. I had the feeling they were hirelings." She tried to recapture those chaotic moments. "When the big one was dragging me toward the coach, I remember wondering if he had done the same with Kira. Perhaps he had taken part in her abduction, and I was vaguely sensing that."
"Mace and Nunfield left the theater during the second act. Possibly one of them could have arranged for an ambush in that short period of time if he knew where to go." Lucien's embrace tightened. "But it's also possible that the attack could be unrelated to your performing before your chief suspects tonight. There's simply not enough real evidence."
She raised her head so she could see his face. "How did you find out we were going to be attacked?"
He hesitated before saying, "I didn't. I just... felt that I should find you."
He had said that he had had a sixth sense where his sister's safety was concerned. Apparently, that ability extended to other females in need. And he had known exactly where to come. She shook her head in amazement. "No wonder you're known as Lucifer—your instincts are uncanny. A good thing you're on my side."
"Always, Kit," he said quietly. "Don't ever doubt that."
Her lover, her protector. With a desire so strong it was pain, she wanted to melt into him, to shelter in his strength and kindness forever. A kind of shiver went through her, as if the invisible walls that separated one person from another were on the verge of dissolving. If that happened, she would sink into him so deeply that she would never be wholly free again.
Aching, she reminded herself that the more tightly she clung now, the more painful it would be to separate. She must maintain a safe distance, not only for the sake of finding Kira, but for her own sanity.
Stepping away, she asked, "Is your ankle badly hurt?"
As she spoke, she made the mistake of looking at him. He became utterly still, and the lamplight showed the warm gold fading from his eyes, leaving them a flat, pale green. He had recognized her subtle withdrawal for the rejection it was, and she was miserably aware how much she had wounded him.
Without a word more being spoken, something significant took place betw
een them. A hardening, a wariness, that rebuilt the barriers between them. He had made himself vulnerable, but she had spurned him, and pride would not permit him to do that again.
His voice cool and uninflected, he said, "My ankle is only twisted. It will be fine tomorrow."
She retrieved her cloak, which had been dropped by her attacker, and wrapped it around her trembling body. Then she collected his hat and cane and silently handed them over. This time she avoided looking into his eyes.
Twenty feet away, Henry Jones had risen and was dusting himself off. A bruise was forming on his jaw, and his lip was split and bloody, but he didn't seem to be seriously injured. "A very timely appearance, my lord," he said genially, oblivious to the undercurrents throbbing between Kit and Lucien. "It was almost worth having my coat ruined to see you in action."
Lucien's head swung toward him. In a voice that could have scorched granite, he asked, "Might I inquire why you didn't wait for my coach to take you and Lady Kathryn home?"
Guessing that his anger toward her was being transferred to Henry, she said quickly, "It was my fault, Lucien. I didn't believe I was in danger, so I insisted on walking."
Ignoring her, he regarded the Runner with narrowed eyes.
Henry's face sobered. "I've no excuse, my lord. Her ladyship didn't understand the risk, but I should have."
"Yes, you should. If you're that careless with Lady Kathryn again, you'll have more to fear from me than from a whole gang of ruffians." Lucien's tone was still caustic, but his expression had relaxed at the Runner's honest admission of error. He gestured toward the coach. "Do you want the driver to take you home after he drops Lady Kathryn and me at Strathmore House? After the drubbing you took, I imagine you could use a ride."
Dancing on the Wind Page 28
