Dancing on the Wind (21 page)

The duke nodded. "With luck we'll have peace with the Americans by Christmas."

"Amen to that." After a parting nod, Lucien hailed a hackney and rode to the Marlowe Theater. There he introduced himself as a journalist writing an article about Cassie James. The young lady had often pleased audiences in the north, and readers there would be interested in her London success.

His presence was accepted casually, and he spent several hours wandering about asking questions and taking notes. He was very skilled at extracting information; unfortunately, no one had anything useful to say. It was universally agreed that Miss James was a charming young lady, not high in the instep at all. Very professional, too.

However, she liked her privacy more than most. No one knew where she lived or any details of her personal life beyond the fact that the night before, her aristocratic lover had swept her from the green room, and a rare sight it had been. Though it had been assumed she had a protector, they'd not known the fellow was of such exalted rank. The lass had done well for herself, and more power to her.

Lucien took a certain satisfaction that no one recognized James Wolsey as the Earl of Strathmore. It was the only satisfaction he was finding in his day's work.

Even the theater manager was unable to help. During a break from rehearsing a
new production, which seemed to consist of bellowing insults at clumsy dancers,
he explained that Miss James played small roles in a number of different plays, but her understudy would be filling in for a week or two because Miss James had asked for time off to visit an ailing aunt. A satirical edge in his voice suggested that he considered the aunt to be fictional; he had been in the green room the night before when his rising young star had been carried off.

However, the girl would be back for the next performance of
The Gypsy Lass
, since that was her most important role. Mr. Wolsey should be sure to tell his readers that another play featuring Miss James was in development. She would play a breeches part, and it was safe to predict that all London would soon be worshipping at her dainty feet.

No, he had no idea where the young lady lived. Considering what temperamental creatures most actresses were, he thanked his lucky stars that Cassie kept herself to herself, showed up when she said she would, and never threw objects at her long-suffering manager. Now if Mr. Wolsey would excuse him, he must get back to work.

Lucien left the theater, frustrated but unsurprised. Once again, Lady Jane had covered her tracks well.

He arrived home to find that in his absence, an anonymous youth had delivered a parcel. He opened it in his study and found his missing cloak and an unsigned note saying, "Whatever else you may think of me, I am not a thief."

It did not improve his mood to see evidence that in her own weird way, Jane was honest. He was tempted to throw the cloak against a wall, but refrained; the heavy wool fabric would not have smashed in a satisfactory fashion.

Besides, he had already indulged in far too much emotion where Jane was concerned. It was high time he set lust aside and analyzed the woman objectively, as he would any other target of investigation. He tossed the cloak over the sofa, then sat at his desk with a sheet of foolscap and a pencil.

To begin with, what did he really know about her?

The one indisputable fact was that she was an actress, a worldly woman who was brilliant at assuming roles all the way from shy innocent to committed intellectual crusader.

She was also like him in many ways—too damned much so, since that similarity underlay both his obsession and his anger.

They were both devious, capable of lying with utter conviction. In his case he was convincing because there was always a purpose to his deceptions; he genuinely believed that he was acting for the ultimate good of his country.

There must be a similar core of sincerity in Jane, or she would not be such a persuasive liar. In fact, she had said as. much when explaining why her story about a nonexistent brother was so convincing. That underlying honesty was why he kept believing her over and over again.

What was driving her to repeatedly risk her life and reputation? He wrote down the key question and underlined it twice. If he knew the answer, he would finally understand her.

He thought back on the stories she had spun. First she had been a sister trying to help a younger brother, then an essayist determined to expose the rape and exploitation of defenseless young women. The common theme was protection, and her passionate caring had been utterly convincing.

Ergo, her maddening, unpredictable behavior was probably caused by a desire to protect someone. Could the person she was trying to help be a lover?

His mouth tightened. He didn't like the thought, but a lover who was in trouble would explain the ambivalence of her reactions to Lucien. Being torn between attraction to one man and fidelity to another could easily produce fevered kisses alternating with wild flight.

For a moment, a vision of her with another lover almost destroyed his dogged detachment. It took time to suppress the image enough for him to proceed with his analysis.

Her persistent attempts to spy on the Hellions indicated that her goal lay within that group. Apparently one of the members had something she wanted, and she had not yet found what she was seeking.

If he stayed close to the Hellions, she would probably appear again, but he was tired of waiting. Thoughtfully he tapped the end of his pencil on the leather surface of the desk as he considered other avenues of pursuit.

Jane had been very knowledgeable about the writings of L. J. Knight. Her claim to be the writer was probably false, but she might move in circles where the man's work was routinely discussed. Perhaps she frequented the salons where writers, artists, actors, and assorted other eccentrics rubbed shoulders and talked about life, politics, and art. In such a place she would have learned that the essayist was a recluse and that she could safely claim his identity, at least temporarily.

He had always enjoyed the salons himself—they had the liveliest conversation in London—but he had been too busy to visit any of them recently. It was time to make the circuit again. He would start at Lady Graham's. She was a wealthy widow with liberal opinions and a gregarious nature, and her fortnightly gatherings drew some of the most interesting and controversial people in Britain. Surely there he could find someone who knew a rising comic actress.

He laid down his pencil, feeling that he had finally made some progress. But it was time to set aside the mystery of Jane and prepare for dinner with Lord Mace. With luck, tonight he would be told when the next Hellion ritual would be held. On that occasion, he could be formally admitted into the group. That should bring him closer to finding the traitor.

As he tied his cravat, he smiled wryly. Perhaps Jane would turn up tonight, her leggy frame and mobile features disguised as one of Mace's footmen. If she did, this time he wouldn't be fool enough to let her out of his sight.

As soon as Lucien stepped inside Mace's house, a dark, heavy cloth was dropped over his head and a voice— Roderick Harford?—said portentously, "The moment of truth has arrived, Strathmore. To become a Hellion, you must undergo initiation. Do you choose to go forward into the unknown, or will you withdraw and never become one of us?"

Lucien suppressed a sigh. He should have known the Hellions would do something juvenile like this. "I wish to be part of your fellowship," he said gravely, "so I shall proceed."

"Obey all orders," Harford intoned. "Expect only the unexpected, and let the hellfires transform you."

Anonymous hands tugged the dark fabric down over Lucien. Apparently it was a shapeless, hooded robe that completely covered the face. After his hands were loosely bound in front of him, he was led through the house and outside to a carriage. A low voice warned him of steps and turns, but it was disorienting to be without sight. Cynically he guessed that the treatment was designed to undermine a man's confidence and make him more susceptible to whatever nonsense followed.

The carriage ride was long and took them out of London. No one spoke, but humans are seldom totally silent. From the sounds of breathing and shifting weight, he guessed that three men accompanied him.

Eventually the carriage lurched to a stop, and someone helped Lucien climb out. The chill wind carried the damp, earthy scents of the country and the sound of lapping waves. After a short walk over soft turf, he was urged into a flat-bottomed boat. It had the narrowness of a punt, designed to be poled through shallow waters. It rocked precariously when he stepped inside, so he sat down quickly.

Three more lurches as the others climbed in. The punt was pushed from the bank, and it glided smoothly through the water. Ahead of them a church bell began to toll somberly, as if counting the years of someone who had just died.

The journey was short and soon the punt crunched into gravel. The passengers disembarked, Lucien banging his shin on the gunwale in the process. More men waited on the shore, for he heard shufflings and a muffled cough. It was a much larger group, perhaps two dozen people. Someone turned Lucien to the right, then tugged at the head of his robe. It fell away, and suddenly he could see again.

On the hill above sprawled a medieval castle, the full moon gilding the ancient stones with cold, uncanny light. The mournful, doom-laden tolling of the church bell made Lucien's hair prickle. He schooled his face to mask his reaction. It was merely theater, but damned effective. If he were superstitious, he'd be frightened half out of his wits.

Surrounding him were perhaps thirty men wearing deeply hooded white robes and clasping tall, lighted candles. They looked like a conclave of ghosts. His own robe was black, presumably because of his novice status.

The nearest man was Roderick Harford. Raising his arms, he cried, "What is our password?"

The false monks chorused, "Do what thou wilt!"

"What is our goal?"

"Pleasure!"

"Come, then, brothers, to our sacred ritual."

A man wearing a medallion around his neck started up the hill and the rest of the group fell in behind him, marching single file. The wind whipped the flames of their candles, sending wild shadows careening across the landscape. Harford gestured for Lucien to join the end of the line, bringing up the rear himself.

The castle was surrounded by high walls. A heavy iron gate admitted the marchers into well-kept gardens. The path wound between shrubs and dimly glimpsed pieces of statuary. As nearly as Lucien could tell in the dim light, one statue was a twenty-foot-high marble phallus. Pure wishful thinking, no doubt.

Their destination was the chapel, which appeared to be the only building intact. As they neared, he saw that the doorway was bracketed by statues of a naked man and an equally naked woman, each holding a finger to the lips in the sign of silence. Both were so well-endowed physically that the average person would feel sadly inferior. Carved above the entrance were the words,
Fay ce que voudras
. Do what thou wilt. The phrase had sounded familiar earlier, and now Lucien recognized it as the motto of the original Hellfire
Club. He wondered what Jane would think of all this masculine self-indulgence, then suppressed a smile at the thought.