Dancing on the Wind

by Mary Jo Putney

  "You don't like it?" he said with a slight edge to his voice.

  Concerned that she had hurt his feelings, Sara glanced up with a quick smile. "The ring is lovely, but the stone is so large that I shall cost you a fortune in ruined gloves."

  He smiled back as he sat down next to her. "I want you to cost me a fortune. You are the best, and you deserve the best."

  This time it was a hint of possessiveness that made Sara uneasy. Becoming betrothed was making her oversensitive. There was no particular mystery to marriage; it was a state most women entered, and once she became more accustomed to the idea, she would no longer start at shadows. She turned the engagement ring on her finger. "You guessed the size exactly right."

  "I didn't guess. Your maid gave me the correct size."

  "Was that necessary?" Sara asked, not at all pleased to learn that her future husband had engaged in a form of spying.

  "Audacity is a necessary ingredient to success, my dear, and I have been very successful." He paused for dramatic effect. "I have just learned something that you might consider another betrothal gift. Your husband will not be a commoner for long—I am going to be created a baron within the next year. I will call myself Lord Weldon of Westminster. Has a nice roll to it, don't you think?" He smiled with vast satisfaction. "While becoming a baroness is a step down for a duke's daughter, this is only the beginning. I will be at least an earl before I die."

  "I would be perfectly content to marry plain Mr. Weldon," Sara said gently, "but I am very pleased that you will be recognized for your achievements." In fact, she thought rather cynically, he was being rewarded less for his undeniable accomplishments than for giving large amounts of money to the Whig party. But since being made a peer was obviously important to him, she was glad for his sake.

  He put his hand over hers. "We must set a wedding date, Sara. I would like the marriage to take place in about three months, perhaps the first week of September."

  "So soon?" she said uncertainly. "I was thinking in terms of six months or a year."

  "Why should we wait so long? We are neither of us children." Weldon's face changed, real tenderness coming into his eyes. "Speaking of children, Eliza wants the wedding to be as soon as possible so she can come live with us. Though she is fond of her aunt and uncle, she says they lack dash."

  Sara smiled. Weldon's love of the eleven-year-old daughter of his first marriage was the trait that had convinced her that he would make an amiable husband. "I'm so glad Eliza approves of me. She is such a darling. Did no one ever tell her that stepmothers are supposed to be wicked?"

  "Eliza has too much good sense to believe fairy tales." Weldon turned to Sara, his eyes intense. "Tell me that you will marry me in September. I don't want to wait."

  He was right—there was no good reason for a long engagement. "Very well, Charles, since that is what you wish."

  Weldon drew her into his arms and sealed their betrothal with a kiss. Sara had guessed that this was coming and prepared herself. She had reached the age of twenty-seven with little experience of kissing, much less what came after. As his powerful arms pulled her against the starched linen of his shirt, she decided that his embrace was not so bad, though rather engulfing, perhaps in time she would come to enjoy kissing. Then his tongue slipped between her lips into her mouth, and she stiffened.

  Immediately he released her, his breathing uneven. 'I'm sorry, Sara," he said apologetically. "For a moment I forgot myself. I did not mean to offend your innocence. That must be saved for our wedding light." There was a hungry, possessive look in his yes as he cupped her cheek with one hand.

  Once more Sara felt a faint thread of alarm. Once more, she suppressed it.

  Chapter 2

  Peregrine turned in a slow circle, scanning the drawing room of his newly acquired suite in the Clarendon Hotel. It was a rather overpowering example of European luxury, replete with gilt furniture, heavy moldings, and mediocre paintings of landscapes and dying animals. Personally he thought the room would be improved by replacing the overstuffed chairs with cushioned divans, but the place would do well enough for the time being.

  Kuram, his Pathan servant, entered the drawing room, resplendent in white turban and red silk tunic. "Mr. Benjamin Slade to see you, Excellency."

  The man who followed Kuram's heels was short, slightly built, and had thinning hair. He was a man who would be easily overlooked, unless one noticed the shrewd gray eyes. Bowing, he said, "It's a pleasure to welcome you to London, Your Highness."

  Peregrine grinned as he shook hands with his visitor. "You and Kuram certainly seem to be enjoying my princeliness, Benjamin. It is not how you behaved in India."

  Slade permitted himself a small smile. "To be j prince enhances your status in London. Even in private, I think it a good thing to maintain the formalities."

  "Doubtless you are right. Care for some tea?"

  Slade accepted the offer. While Kuram went to order refreshments, the Englishman brought his employer up to date on matters of business.

  Peregrine had met Benjamin Slade five years earlier in Bombay. A lawyer by training, Slade had served the East India Company loyally for a decade before being dismissed in a cloud of scandal. After some quiet investigation, Peregrine learned that Slade's business acumen had helped make his superior, a Mr. Wilkerson, a wealthy man. His reward had been to be made a scapegoat for Wilkerson's embezzling.

  Benjamin Slade had been an embittered and desperate man when Peregrine paid a call and offered him two things: a job and revenge. Slade had accepted both. Within a month, new evidence came to light that destroyed Wilkerson's career and sent him to prison. While the lawyer knew that the evidence must have been manufactured, he made no protest, for justice had been done. A month later, Slade took ship for London to become Peregrine's British business agent. In the intervening years he had served his employer brilliantly, in ways both orthodox and unorthodox.

  After receiving an overview of recent business developments, Peregrine leaned back in his chair and crossed his long legs. "I wish to make a splash in the London social scene, so you must find me a fashionable house. Something worthy of a prince."

  Slade nodded. "To rent or to buy?"

  "Either. If no suitable property is available for lease, buy one. I would also like you to look for a country estate within two hours' drive of London. Besides an impressive house, there must be enough land so that it can be farmed profitably."

  His agent's eyebrows went up. "Do you intend to stay in England indefinitely?"

  "That remains to be seen. As a matter of principle, I want the property to be a decent investment in its own right, as well as good for entertaining." Peregrine paused while Kuram set down a tea tray between the men, then continued, "The information you have gathered on Sir Charles Weldon was a useful beginning, but I want you to explore his business dealings more deeply."

  Slade nodded, his face expressionless. "Certainly. Can you give me an idea of what are you looking for?

  Peregrine's answer shook the lawyer's careful control. "Good God," Slade gasped, "what you are suggesting is unbelievable."

  "Unbelievable, perhaps, but not impossible," Peregrine murmured. "The fact that it is unbelievable would be Weldon's best protection. While I have no evidence, my instincts tell me that if you look in the directions I have indicated, you will discover something. I rely on you to find the needle in the haystack, Benjamin, and to do it with the utmost discretion."

  The lawyer nodded, still stunned. "If it is there, I swear that I shall find it."

  Peregrine sipped his tea, satisfied. A vital thread was about to be spun in the web forming around Sir Charles Weldon.

  * * *

  The unpredictable English weather had cooperated to make Lady Sara's party a success, and the colorful dresses of the female guests were like flowers strewn across the sunlit garden of Haddonfield House. Food, drink, and conversation, mankind's basic entertainment, were all plentiful. As voices and laughter rang through the summer-scent
ed air, footmen circulated among the guests with trays of drinks and gentle strains of music emanated from an invisible chamber quartet.

  Having just arrived, Peregrine and Lord Ross stood at the edge of the garden, their height giving them an advantage in viewing the guests. As the Englishman made low-voiced comments about what could be expected of the event, Peregrine listened with only half an ear. Though his face was calm, internally he vibrated with anticipation. Today, after twenty-five years of waiting, he would meet his enemy face-to-face.

  Narrowing his eyes against the sun, Ross said, "I don't see Weldon yet, but he will certainly be here before the afternoon is over. Will you recognize him?"

  "I will recognize him," Peregrine said softly. Even in the darkest circle of hell, he would know Weldon. There was a slight chance that the recognition would be mutual, though Peregrine had been only a boy of ten at their last meeting. The possibility added a savory dash of uncertainty to the upcoming encounter.

  Revenge would be less satisfying if Weldon were an unknowing victim. But that would not happen, for eventually the Englishman would realize that he was prey and would strike back. The final battle would be fierce, for Weldon was on his own turf, with vast resources at his command.

  If by some freak chance Weldon managed to destroy his stalker, he would still die himself at the hands of an assassin activated by Peregrine's death. Not a sportsmanlike action, but Peregrine had little use for the English concept of sportsmanship, which was a luxury for men who were not in danger of losing anything of real importance. No matter what happened, Weldon would die, after what he valued most had been taken from him. The only major variable was whether Peregrine himself would survive, and that was not a vital question.

  Ross's voice interrupted his musings. "Are you ready to be introduced to some of your fellow guests?"

  Peregrine gave him a lazy smile. "You cannot imagine how much irony there is in the fact that I am here in London, about to be plunged into the heart of respectable English society."

  "You make yourself sound like a dagger," Ross said dryly. "Perhaps I can't fully appreciate the nuances, but I see that you find the situation vastly amusing."

  "Indeed," Peregrine murmured. Glancing across the crowd, he asked, "Which of the lovely ladies is my hostess?"

  "Look for the most beautiful blonde." Ross scanned the crowd, then nodded in the right direction when he found her. "There's Sara, under the tree on the far side of the garden, the one talking to the little girl."

  Just as Peregrine's gaze located the woman, a plump man bustled up to Lord Ross. As his friend turned to the newcomer, Peregrine studied Lady Sara St. James. At first glance she was a disappointment, for he would have guessed that Weldon would choose a wife of stunning beauty as well as noble birth. Perhaps there were no eligible duke's daughters who were also beautiful.

  Ross's cousin was rather small, slim, and simply dressed in a cream-colored gown. Her hair was pulled back over her ears into a demure knot on her neck, and was of a shade Peregrine considered too dark to be called blond. In spite of her cousin's description, she was definitely not a woman to bring a roomful of men to awed attention.

  Lady Sara had her arm around the shoulders of a pretty flaxen-haired girl of ten or eleven years. The child glowed with the pleasure of attending an adult party. Turning her face up, she said something that caused the older woman to laugh and give the girl a gentle push toward the refreshment table.

  As the child danced off, Lady Sara stepped from under the tree into the sunshine, her face still lit with laughter. And when she did, Peregrine caught his breath, suddenly transfixed.

  Sara St. James was not stunning, or even vividly pretty, for prettiness was just another fashion that changed as quickly as the English weather. But in the bones of Lady Sara's face, the serenity of her expression, there was a wise, timeless beauty that would be honored in any age, by any race of earth's children. A sibyl of the ancient Greeks would have had such a countenance. Haloed by the sun, her hair was thick dark honey shot with amber and old gold, as luxurious as antique silk. Now he understood why Ross had called Lady Sara beautiful and blond, for there was no single, simple word that would describe her coloring. Or her.

  Peregrine smiled and silently saluted his enemy's taste, for Weldon had, indeed, chosen a wife of rare beauty and breeding. Separating Ross's cousin from her betrothed was going to be a most rewarding endeavor, for it would save the lady from a vile husband, deprive Weldon of one of the trophies of his success, and be stimulating sport for Peregrine as well.

  Since Ross was having trouble escaping his acquaintance, Peregrine decided to make his way to his hostess on his own. Like a trout into water, he slipped into the crowd. A footman with a tray of filled goblets went past, and Peregrine deftly captured one. A sip identified a fine French champagne, chosen to go with the mounds of fresh strawberries featured on the refreshment tables. He stopped and sampled a berry, discovering that champagne complemented the flavor perfectly. These English aristocrats knew how to live well, even if it was an artificial little world they inhabited.

  Numerous oblique glances followed his leisurely progress, but most guests were too well-bred to stare openly. Probably they were just curious at the sight of an unfamiliar face in their usual circle. He knew there was nothing amiss with his appearance, for he had run the gauntlet of tailor, boot maker, and barber, and knew himself to be a very fair approximation of an English gentleman.

  The only person who looked at him directly was a glorious golden-haired creature of mature years who gave him a warning look when his gaze lingered too long on her equally glorious young daughter. Seeing her determination to keep the wolf from her lamb, Peregrine offered his most disarming smile.

  After a surprised moment, the mother smiled back, though she stayed close to her daughter. Wise woman. Peregrine estimated that the girl would be worth five hundred guineas in the Tripoli slave market, and the mother would probably bring two hundred in spite of her age. He grinned inwardly, imagining the reactions of the people around him if they could read his thoughts. That plump, aging dandy would be overpriced at five pounds.

  While he was alert to everything about him, most of his attention was focused unobtrusively on Lady Sara as she performed her duties as a hostess, saying a few words to one guest before moving on to another. It had not been immediately obvious, because she was slight while Ross was tall and strongly built, but as Peregrine came closer, he saw how much the cousins resembled each other. The handsome, masculine planes of Ross's face were refined to delicate femininity in Lady Sara, and the cousins also shared clear brown eyes and well-defined brows and lashes that contrasted dramatically with their fair hair.

  But there was a subtler similarity, a quality more mental than physical that was hinted at in Ross, and rather stronger in Lady Sara. It nagged at Peregrine, a faint shadow that he recognized but could not quite define.

  Then, when their paths finally intersected and he came face-to-face with his hostess, he knew what haunted her eyes in that particular way. Lady Sara St. James's calm, sibyl face had been shaped and molded by pain.

  * * *

  As soon as Sara saw the tall, black-haired man, she knew that he was Ross's newly arrived friend. Then she had questioned her conclusion, wondering why she was so certain. His skin was dark, but no more than that of a weathered farmer, his craggy features were not noticeably foreign, and his superbly tailored black clothing was quintessentially British. Nonetheless, she was sure that he could only be Prince Peregrine of Kafiristan.

  It was the way he moved, she decided, fluid and feral as a predator, wholly unlike the way a European walked. She saw how women watched him covertly and was not surprised, for there was something about the Kafir that would make women spin foolish fantasies about sensuous savages who were really nature's noblemen, untrammeled by civilization. Sara smiled at her own foolishness, then lost sight of the prince as she talked to one of her father's elderly cousins.

  Then, quite sudden
ly, the currents of the party brought her face-to-face with Prince Peregrine. Sara tilted her head up as she opened her mouth to welcome her guest, but her voice died unborn as his intense gaze caught and held hers. The prince's eyes were a clear, startling green, a color unlike any other she had ever seen, a wild, exotic reminder that this was a man raised under different skies, by different rules. The unknowable green depths beckoned, promising... promising what?

  It would be easy to drown in those eyes, to throw propriety and honor aside, and count the world well lost.... Shocked and disoriented by her thoughts, Sara swallowed and forced her mind back to reality. Extending her hand, she said, "I am your hostess, Sara St. James. Surely you are Prince Peregrine?"

  His black slashing brows rose in mock despair. Taking her hand, he said in a deep resonant voice, "It is so obvious? And here I thought I was wearing correct native dress. Perhaps I should sell the tailor to the tin mines for failing me." He had a faint, husky accent, and his pronunciation was slightly overprecise, but otherwise his English was flawless.

  Sara laughed. "It is not British custom to sell people to the mines, as I'm sure you know. Besides, your tailor is not at fault. There is an old proverb that clothes make the man, but that is only a partial truth. What really makes a man is his experiences, and your face was not formed by an English life."

  "Very true." The prince still clasped Sara's hand. His own hand was well shaped and well groomed, but had the hardness that resulted from physical labor.

  Abruptly Sara remembered a demonstration of electricity she had once seen, for she felt as if a powerful current was flowing from him to her. It radiated from his warm clasp and those unnerving green eyes, and made her disturbingly aware of his sheer maleness. Perhaps an arduous mountain life had made the prince so lithe and strong, so attractive that she wanted to run her hands over his body, feel his muscles, draw him close....