Dancing on the Wind (10 page)

"You will make room," he said 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 heft half her breasts bare and fell only to midthigh. 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. Last 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."

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.