Dancing on the Wind (16 page)

If Leigh Hunt had ever met a female like Jane, he might be less sure of that. Of course she might have lied about being L. J. Knight, but Lucien was inclined to believe her; her zeal and knowledge of public affairs had been convincing. "Do you think Knight would mind if I called on him? I'd like to shake his hand. I don't always agree with his opinions, but he has an insightful mind.
It's
a pleasure to read his essays."

Leigh Hunt frowned. "I doubt if he would welcome visitors. I believe his health is poor, so he lives very retired."

Lucien gave a small nod. To be an invalid was the perfect disguise for an unconventional woman, and exactly the sort of cleverness he would expect of Jane.

"I wouldn't want to overtax the fellow's strength," he said piously, "but I have a proposal for him. The war is over and it's time for Britain to look ahead. I'd like to publish a pamphlet about my economic and social ideas. However, I'm an indifferent writer so I need to hire someone to present my views effectively. If you can give me Knight's address, I'll send a note and ask if he would consider the project. If he's not interested, I shan't disturb him."

The editor hesitated. "Knight has always refused to allow me to call. Still, it's a rare scribbler who isn't interested in more work, especially with a gentleman as generous as you. His address is 20 Frith Street."

Soho again. Lucien did not think it was a coincidence. Since Jane had also come up with a Soho address when he had pressed her, there was a good chance that she lived in the area. That narrowed his search down to manageable proportions. He steered the conversation to other subjects, and after a few more minutes he took his leave.

On the ride back to London, he weighed what he had learned. In his work he had met many kinds of liars, including those who told falsehoods for sport, and those who could not tell illusion from reality. Jane was not like that; her lies were told for a purpose. He supposed he couldn't blame her for lying about where she lived since he had been pressing her to reveal what she preferred to conceal. But though his anger lessened, his determination to find her did not.

It was late, so the visit to Frith Street must wait until the next day. He wondered what he would find there; devious Jane probably had her mail sent someplace other than her home. But the address might lead to something else.

Since nothing more could be done about her for the time being, he turned his thoughts to the Phantom. A French spy was more important than finding one maddening young lady.

His head knew that, but his heart didn't.

Wearing a drab cloak and a deep poke bonnet that shadowed her face, Kit entered the greengrocer's shop. The owner, a stout, middle-aged woman with a pleasant face, was busy with an elderly customer, but she gave
Kit
a quick smile of welcome.

Kit busied herself inspecting the produce until the other customer was gone. Then she said, "Good morning, Mrs. Henley."

"It's good to see you again, miss. It's been too long,"
the
other woman said affably. "What's your pleasure today?"

"A dozen leeks, please, and two pounds of those fresh Brussels sprouts." As Mrs. Henley selected the vegetables, Kit murmured, "Someone might come by and ask about L. J. Knight. Probably a very charming, very persuasive gentleman."

Mrs. Henley said, "Don't worry, lass, he'll learn nothing from me."

"The less you say, the better, for he's a clever fellow."

Another customer came into the shop, so Mrs. Henley said in a louder voice, "Would you like some of these oranges, miss? They're a bit dear, but ever so sweet."

"They do look good," Kit agreed. "I'll take six."

When the oranges had been added to her basket, she handed over the money for her purchases. Concealed among the smaller coins was a gold guinea. Softly she said, "This is to cover the cost of forwarding the mail. I don't want to collect it in person for the time being."

Mrs. Henley gave a conspiratorial smile as she pocketed the money. Then she turned to her new customer.

Soberly, Kit left the shop. She should never have told Lucien—she gave herself a mental shake and changed the name to Strathmore—so much. Granted, not all of it was true, but she didn't think it would take him long to separate the wheat from the chaff. He might be questioning Leigh Hunt right now, which would lead him straight to Mrs. Henley's shop.

He would also, she feared, be furious at her deception. It was ironic that she, who had always had a passion for the truth, was now telling so many different lies that it was hard to keep them all straight. That she had no choice did not make her feel much better.

With a sigh she set aside her concerns about Strathmore. It was time to start worrying about what she would be doing that night. It wouldn't do to get her anxieties mixed up.

Lucien was not surprised to find that number 20 Frith Street was a combination greengrocer's shop and postal receiving office. With a steady stream of mostly female customers coming and going all day, it would be easy for Jane to collect her letters unobtrusively.

When the customers realized that a man—not only that, but one of obvious wealth and position—had entered the shop, they began exchanging nervous glances. One by one, they hastened to complete their business and leave, though not without studying the intruder. He stood calmly, his hands folded on the head of his cane, but he found it secretly amusing that he could clear a shop by his mere presence.

When the other customers had left, the shopkeeper turned to him, showing no surprise at the sight of a fashionable gentleman among the baskets of turnips and potatoes. Very likely Jane had warned her that Lucien might come looking for L. J. Knight. "What can I do for you, sir?" the woman asked. "Some nice oranges, perhaps?"

To his regret, she did not look easily bribable. Any information he got would have to come by misdirection. "I'm looking for my uncle. He's a delightful old fellow, but not as steady as one would like. Periodically he runs away from home. I've heard that this time he has taken a flat in Soho and is having his mail sent to this address. His name is L. J. Knight. Does he collect his letters here?"

She looked startled, as if she had been expecting a different question. "Your uncle's name sounds familiar, but I can't put a face to him."

Lucien gave the woman a disarming smile. "May I be candid with you? We're afraid that this time the old boy has run off with an adventuress. Perhaps she is collecting his mail. Is this woman familiar?" He drew a sketch he had done of Jane from an inside pocket.

If he hadn't been watching the shopkeeper so closely,he would have missed the slight, involuntary widening of her eyes. Lucien was willing to swear it was recognition.

After a moment she said, "Perhaps I've seen her, but I can't say for sure. It's not a memorable face."

Lucien did not agree with that, but it was true that Jane had no single feature that was distinctive. It would take an exceptional artist to capture her uniqueness, and his talent was not equal to the task.

Handing back the sketch, the shopkeeper remarked, "She doesn't look like an adventuress."

"That is what makes the woman so dangerous. Though she looks like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, she has an alarming reputation. We fear she might injure Uncle James when she realizes that he has no money in his own right."

A spark of amusement showed in the shopkeeper's eyes as she recognized that Lucien was spinning tales. "If the girl becomes difficult, no doubt your uncle will come home."

"I hope so. He has not always shown good judgment where females are concerned." Lucien wondered wryly if he was talking about his mythical uncle or about himself.

After thanking the shopkeeper for answering his questions, he left. He could have a watch set on the shop, but doubted it would do much good. Jane was too clever to come in person now that Lucien knew about the place.

It would be more productive to have one of his inquiry agents ask for her around Soho, armed with the sketch. Though slow, such work often yielded results. In time he would find her.

But what would he do with her when he did?

Interlude

When she heard him enter the anteroom, she drained her tea and very carefully set down the cup. Then she stood and shook out the black hair that fell straight as a waterfall to her waist. Tonight she wore a black lace costume that fitted her like a second skin from deep decolletage to thigh-high boots. The open patterns of the lace teased the eye, pretending to reveal more of her body than they actually did.

Her lips tightened when she heard the small whirring sound from the next room. Grasping a whip, she swaggered out with the arrogance of a cavalryman. "Touch nothing without my permission, slave," she snarled as she slashed at his wrist

Though it was the softest of the whips, the lash still raised a welt. He flinched and set down the mechanical device, but his eyes were glowing as he dropped to his knees. "I humbly beg your pardon, mistress."

She kicked him in the face, a glancing blow that avoided his eye and would leave only a slight mark. "I do not accept your apology, slave. You must be punished. Strip off your clothing so that you are as naked as other beasts."

He obeyed, his hands clumsy with eagerness as he bared his strong, leathery body. Then he crouched on his hands and knees. She laid the whip across his spine with furious strength. He gasped and raised his head to stare at her, pupils dark.

She had gone too far, too soon. This was the most difficult part, holding back while she slowly raised the level of pain. If she proceeded too quickly, she would lose him, and a great deal more.

She cracked the whip again, more gently, and he relaxed with a rasping moan of pleasure. As carefully as an artist painting a portrait, she began flicking the lash all over his body, monitoring his degree of arousal with hawklike intensity.

She also cursed him, calling him every filthy name she knew, telling him what an utterly loathsome creature he was. Her diatribe added fuel to the flame of his excitement.

When the soft whip reached the limit of its effectiveness, she exchanged it for one with a harder thong that raised blood at every blow. He began to writhe under the rhythm of her whip, welcoming strokes that would have been too painful earlier. Finally, she was free to strike with the full viciousness of her rage. She slashed him again and again, violence possessing her until she was scarcely human. His mewling cries became louder and louder, filling the room until his sweat-soaked body began shuddering with ecstasy.

Then it was over, and he lay sprawled on a sheepskin rug, his blood staining the white wool, his whole body Ump with repletion. "You are superb, mistress, " he panted. "Superb."

Choked with self-loathing, she spun on her heel and stalked from the room.

Kit awoke shivering, her body drenched with sweat. It had been the most vivid nightmare yet, and it left her feeling nauseated. She tried to make sense of the images, but without success; the nightmare was so alien to her experience that it was like trying to understand Chinese. Only the emotions were recognizable: rage and anguish so intense that they threatened to drown her.