She fed the cat, put on the kettle, and brought out a loaf of bread. Then, as she lifted a knife to cut a slice, her mind suddenly flashed an image from the nightmare.
Though the details were vague, it was clearly some kind of mechanical toy. She froze, knife poised in midair and stomach churning. She knew only one man capable of creating such a device. Dear God, don't let it be Lucien, she prayed. Please don't let it be him.
Yet if it was…
She stared blindly at the glittering edge of the blade. Even if the man she sought was the Earl of Strathmore, she would not be deterred from her goal.
Glumly Lucien eyed the piles of information he had gathered on the Hellions. It was a positive embarrassment of riches about their finances, their politics, their love affairs, their public vices, and secret virtues. Yet he knew no more after sifting through the material than he had deduced through pure intuition. Most of the Disciples had chronic financial problems. Several had direct access to government secrets, and all moved in circles where information might be gleaned from the careless words of officials. Any one of them might have taken French money.
He wasn't doing any better in his search for his mystery woman. For two days his investigator had been canvassing Soho with the sketch of Jane. Some residents and shopkeepers thought she looked familiar, but no one could put a name or address to her. Perhaps the flaw was in the sketch, but he suspected that the problem was her chameleonlike ability to look very different at different times.
On impulse he decided to put his papers away and go to dinner at his club. An amiable evening among friends might clear his fuzzy thinking.
Business and pleasure combined when Lucien found Lord Ives at his club. Though he did not suspect Ives of being the Phantom, there was always a chance that the youthful Hellion would say something interesting about other members of the group. More to the point, Lucien enjoyed the younger man's company. Anyone who could laugh at himself after being whacked in the nose with a bust improver was worth cultivating.
Over the port, Ives said, "I'll have to leave soon. I'm going to the theater tonight."
"Drury Lane?"
"No, the Marlowe, that new place on the Strand. Have you been there?"
"Not yet, though I've been meaning to attend," Lucien said with a stir of interest. "I've heard that it's giving the two royal patent theaters a run for their money."
"It's true-they're first-rate at comedy." Ives grinned. "And they have the most luscious opera dancers in London."
"You have your eye on one?"
"I've had more than my eye on her," Ives said with a touch of endearingly youthful pride. "Would you care to join me tonight? I'm not meeting Cleo until afterward, and I'll have the whole box to myself. Tonight there will be a performance of the company's most popular play. I can vouch that it's very diverting."
"I'd like that. I've always enjoyed the theater, but lately I've been too busy to attend."
The younger man began discoursing knowledgeably about the stage, past and present. Clearly the subject was a passion with him. He also mentioned that he had met Lord Nunfield through a mutual interest in the theater, and that acquaintanceship had led Ives to the Hellions.
As they finished their port, Lucien remarked, "The theater is a special place, and its people are a special breed."
"I admire the carefree way they live their lives," Ives said pensively as they left the club dining room. "Wouldn't it be wonderful if all females were as uninhibited as actresses?"
"I'm not sure the world is ready for that." Lucien signaled for their hats and cloaks to be brought. "When you marry, will you want your wife to be as free as an opera dancer?"
Ives gave a rueful smile. "Point taken."
Each man took his own carriage so they could leave separately later. They reunited in the box lobby of the theater and went up immediately since the performance had already begun.
Only the two theaters that held royal patents, Drury Lane and Covent Garden, were allowed to present "serious" drama. Other theaters, such as the Marlowe, skirted the law by including music and dancing so performances could be billed as concerts. Lucien and Ives took their seats as the house orchestra finished a spirited rendition of Handel's "Water Music."
After the music came the main event. According to the playbill, the title was The Gypsy Lass. It was an enjoyable bit of nonsense that started with a dashing young nobleman called Horatio being disowned by his stern father, the Duke of Omnium, after a wicked cousin made it appear that Horatio had disgraced the family name. Brokenhearted, the young man went into the wilderness, where he was saved from death by a troop of Gypsies.
When Horatio joined his new friends for a feast around the campfire, Ives said quietly, "In a moment a chorus of girls will come out and dance. Cleo will lead the line."
Brilliantly costumed and jingling with coin necklaces, the girls pranced onstage. Cleo was a lively wench with a pretty face and a saucy eye. As she raised the tambourine over her head, which did impressive things to an already impressive figure, she glanced up at their box and grinned at Ives. She looked like the delightful answer to a young man's prayer.
Then the chorus fell back a few steps and another Gypsy girl spun onto the stage to dance a solo. Her appearance produced a wave of applause. The newcomer was not a great beauty, but she had in full measure the indefinable quality that makes the best performers able to rivet the attention of everyone within sight.
The girl pivoted and leaped joyously across the stage, her skirts rising to reveal a delicate gold chain around one shapely ankle. As the tempo increased, her skirts floated higher, allowing tantalizing views of her calves and an occasional glimpse of a knee. She had truly superior legs.
When the girl glided to a halt, her gaze met that of the enraptured Horatio. The two stared at each other. She had an elegant profile, as pure as a Greek coin--
Lucien inhaled sharply, paralyzed by shock so intense it was physical. It wasn't possible, it bloody wasn't possible. Tightly he asked, "May I borrow your opera glass?"
Ives handed the glass over obligingly. The magnification proved that Lucien's eyes had not betrayed him. The long limbs and classic profile were unmistakably Jane.
His knuckles whitened around the opera glass. The woman he had thought to be a reserved, idealistic bluestocking was an actress. An actress, moreover, who was not the least bit shy about exposing an indecent amount of her lovely body to a theater full of strangers.
He handed the opera glass back, allowing only mild curiosity in his voice. "Who is the solo dancer?"
"That's Miss James-Cassie James. She plays Anna, the romantic interest. She's very good, isn't she?"
She was more than good; she was stunning as she whirled back into action. There was a glow about her that lit up the stage, eclipsing the other actors.
As mesmerized as Lucien, Horatio rose from the campfire and began dancing with Anna. Flirtatiously, she tossed her black hair and flounced the foaming layers of her skirts as she danced, her hem going higher with every turn.
"Any moment now, we should see the famous tattoo," Ives said softly. "Watch for it above her right knee."
Sure enough, her skirts swirled high enough to expose a design on her inner thigh just above the knee. The sight provoked a deafening roar of male approval from the audience.
Anna obligingly flounced her skirts again, provoking more shouts. Lucien wanted to grind his teeth. "What is the tattoo, a flower?"
"No, a butterfly."
Ives handed back the opera glass, and on Anna's next kick Lucien was privileged to view a frivolous black-and-scarlet butterfly etched on the silken flesh of her inner thigh. He wanted to swath her in a cloak that would cover her from chin to toes. He wanted to wring her untrustworthy neck. He also wanted, rather desperately, to press his lips to that teasing, maddening butterfly, then let them drift higher____________________
Feeling on the verge of suffocation, he closed his eyes until he could breathe again. As he opened them, t
he curtain was descending for the interval. He turned to his companion. "Tell me about Cassie James."
"Taken with her, were you?" Ives grinned. "Well, they say she's destined to be as successful in comedy as Mrs. Jordan was. She started on the stage in London three or four years ago, I believe, but had only minor parts so she went to the provincial circuits. Two years ago I saw her in the Theatre Royal in York in a production of She Stoops to Conquer, and she was excellent. The manager of the Marlowe decided Cassie was ready for London, so he hired her for this season and wrote The Gypsy Lass for her. Both she and the play have been a great success."
Lucien didn't give a damn about her theatrical triumphs. "Does Miss James currently have a protector?"
"Not that I know of. I think she's the sort who prefers having a variety of lovers."
"Details, please."
"You really are interested, aren't you? Sorry, but I honestly don't know who has bedded her-she's fairly discreet for an actress. In York I saw her in the green room being rather brazen with some colonial-a Canadian, I think, or perhaps an American, but I have no idea what his name was." Ives thought a moment. "Nun-field was after her. I was with him the night she made her London debut this past September. He acted just as you're acting now."
Lucien's feeling of suffocation returned. "Did he succeed with her?"
"I don't think so, but again, I couldn't swear to it. I know he was prepared to offer her a very generous carte blanche."
Lucien wondered how many men "Jane" had lain with while acting like a distressed gentlewoman with him. Acting. That was the key. It explained the wigs, the makeup, the ability to assume different personalities. Even Ives, who knew Cassie James, rising comic actress, hadn't recognized her when he had made that drunken advance to Sally at the George and Vulture.
The only real question was why had she been stalking the Hellions. One nauseating possibility was that she was Nunfield's mistress and had been spying on the group at his request, either for information or because the two of them found the idea perversely amusing. Or perhaps they had been lovers, and he had dismissed her, and now she was seeking some kind of revenge.
One thing was blindingly clear: once again, she had made a complete fool of Lucien.
The interval ended, and the next act of The Gypsy Lass began. Romance blossomed between Anna and Horatio, and they were on the verge of a Gypsy wedding. Then the Duke of Omnium appeared and begged his son's forgiveness for believing the wicked lies told by the cousin.
After reconciling with his father, Horatio asked Anna to be his bride, offering her luxury and a future as the next Duchess of Omnium. Tears in her eyes, she declined the offer because of her humble birth, saying she was unworthy to be a duchess.
As the two lovers were about to separate forever, the King of the Gypsies made a grand appearance, accompanied by the whole chorus of tambourine-thumping opera dancers. The king explained that Anna was really the daughter of an earl who had been stolen as an infant because of her exquisite beauty. Her breeding established as suitably aristocratic, Anna accepted Horatio's offer. The play ended with the whole cast, including the Duke of Omnium, dancing merrily around the campfire.
As Gypsy lore the play was ludicrous; Lucien made a mental note to tell Nicholas to see it, since his friend would find the depiction of the Rom uproarious. But as entertainment it worked, and Cassie James was the best part.
After the cast had made its bows and left the stage, Ives said, "I'm going to find Cleo now. Do you want to go down to the green room with me, or shall we say good night here?"
Lucien stood and lifted the cloak he had tossed over an empty chair. "I shall accompany you to the green room. I cannot tell you how much I am longing to meet the talented Miss James."
Chapter 12
The green room swarmed with exuberant actors, actresses, and their friends. The after-performance tumult always made Kit uneasy, so she held court with her back to the wall. A dozen men stood in a half circle in front of her, offering extravagant compliments and vying for her attention.
She had become adept at the suggestive banter that gentlemen enjoyed. When one admirer said, "You were like an angel tonight, Miss James," she replied mischievously, "If that's true, the angels had better reform."
The crowd around her laughed. A dandyish fellow said soulfully, "Are you sure you won't accept my carte blanche? I long to become your protector."
She eyed him thoughtfully. "Men are always trying to protect me. I can never figure out what from."
The group started offering boisterous suggestions of just which of them she most needed to be protected from. As they tossed names back and forth, she kept one eye on the rest of the green room, watching for surprise, or shock, or some other reaction that might be significant to her search.
Lord Ives had come, and he was now leaving the room with a smiling Cleo tucked under his arm. From what Cleo said, he was a decent young man. She saw no other Hellions. Those who were theatergoers must have long since seen The Gypsy Lass, so she was unlikely to learn much tonight.
She brought her attention back to her admirers when a sober young man tried to press a religious tract into her hand. "The theater is no life for a decent woman,"he said earnestly. "Read this, and you'll see the error of your ways."
Declining the tract, she said with a wicked smile, "To err is human-and it feels divine."
In the roar of laughter that followed, the earnest young man beat a hasty retreat. A dignified older man said, "Goodness, but you have a quick tongue."
She batted her lashes extravagantly. "Goodness has nothing to do with it."
More laughter. She glanced across the room to see if anyone new had come in, then stiffened in shock. Lord Strathmore was stalking through the crowd toward her with the single-minded intensity of a hungry leopard.
She gave an inward curse. She should have known her luck wouldn't last; Strathmore had an uncanny ability to locate her.
Her instinct was to bolt, but she quelled it. She would never be able to move quickly through the press of people. Besides, she was better off staying in the green room. He couldn't do anything too dreadful in such a public place.
She underestimated him.
While she was trying to gather her wits, Strathmore reached the inner circle of the group around her. He was in his Lucifer mode, radiating such an aura of menacing force that the other men instinctively drew back.
Yet his manner was unexceptionable when he spoke. "You were magnificent tonight, my sweet." He raised Kit's chin and gave her a light, possessive kiss, as if they were established lovers.
Impossible not to respond to his warm lips, but she distrusted his glittering smile. She flattened her spine against the wall and wondered what mischief he was planning. "I'm glad you enjoyed the show," she said warily.
"You are a continual astonishment, my dear," he said in a husky, intimate voice. "Every time I see you perform, I feel that I've just met a fascinating new woman."
While she was trying to think of a suitable response for his double-edged words, he opened the cloak that had been draped over his arm. The voluminous garment was large enough to wrap around her twice. In a flurry of swift movements, he did exactly that, pulling her away from the wall and swaddling her so tightly in the heavy folds that her arms were pinioned to her sides.
She sputtered, "What the devil are you doing?"
"You complained that I was becoming predictable," he said silkily, "so I decided to remedy that." He swept her up in his arms and brushed a kiss on her lips, deftly lifting his head away when she attempted to bite him. "Tonight, we recapture romance."
Outraged, Kit tried to struggle free, but she was helpless in the cocoon of dark fabric.
One of her admirers said jovially, "I knew a prime piece like Cassie must have a protector, but I had no idea you were the lucky man, Strathmore. No wonder she's refused the rest of us."
"I'm very aware of my good fortune." His tender tone was belied by the dangerous green light in his e
yes as he gazed at her. "There's not another woman in England like Cassie James."
Their progress across the green room was accompanied by ribald suggestions for what his ladybird might find romantic. Kit tried to wriggle free, but his arms held her against his broad chest as securely as iron bands. She did manage to ram an elbow into his solar plexus, and he winced at the blow, but his smile never faltered.
Under his breath he said, "I wouldn't advise you to make a scene, my dear."
A quick glance at the laughing men around her made her realize that an appeal for help would do her no good. Any protest would be seen as part of a teasing game between lovers.
An obliging visitor opened the door for Strathmore, who gave a nod of thanks and stepped into the hall. His footsteps echoed hollowly as he carried her from the empty theater. Even if she screamed, no one would hear her over the noise of the green room.
When they reached the side door, the porter made a deep bow. "Your carriage is waiting, my lord."
Strathmore inclined his head. "Thank you, Smithson."
Kit tried to struggle free, but with no more success than before. "Help me, Mr. Smithson," she said urgently. "This is no game-I'm being kidnapped."
The porter smiled indulgently as he let them out. "His lordship told me about his plans earlier, miss. Enjoy yourself. You work hard, and you deserve a bit of fun."
Strathmore's carriage stood directly outside, the horses' breath cloudy in the cold night air. Smithson opened the door and lowered the steps for them. After the earl lifted Kit into the carriage and deposited her on the leather seat, he tossed a gold coin to the porter.
Kit used the moment that his back was turned to try to free herself from the enveloping cloak, but before she could make any progress, Strathmore climbed in beside her and slammed the door. The carriage immediately began rolling along the rutted alley that led to the Strand.
As the motion pitched Kit against the side of the vehicle, her fear flared into sheer panic. Through all of their improbable encounters, she had not really believed that Strathmore would hurt her, but now she wondered if her judgment of him had been dead wrong. In a matter of moments, she had gone from safety to imprisonment. So swiftly, so easily. He could murder her tonight and throw her body in the Thames. If her disappearance were ever investigated, all he would have to do is say that they had had a splendid night and he had left her in perfect health. No one would ever doubt a fine, upstanding nobleman who could lie with such elegant ease.
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