Dancing on the Wind (25 page)

"In other words, you had to choose between your twin and having a roof over your head," Lucien guessed. "Difficult."

"Not at all. Kristine effectively made the decision for both of us, just as she always made decisions in the past."

The pain in her voice cut too close to the bone for Lucien's comfort. "Surely she misses you as much as you miss her."

Kathryn's face shuttered. "That is neither here nor there, Lord Strathmore. You wanted to know why my sister and I lead very different lives, and now you do. I'll thank you not to spread the information. Jane would not like it to be public knowledge that Cassie James is really a black sheep Travers."

"Your aunt sounds like a bit of a tyrant."

"She has been very good to me," Kathryn said with even greater coldness. "I will not countenance criticism of her."

He admired her loyalty and hoped it was rewarded in kind. Despite her prickliness, there was a vulnerability about Kathryn that made him want to protect her—even though he was still not convinced that she wasn't a bald-faced liar.

"Though actresses can happen in even the best-regulated families, I understand why Lady Jane would rather not advertise the connection. However, since you are identical twins, trying to conceal the relationship seems like an exercise in futility."

She shrugged. "Not really. While we are generally considered attractive, we have no single, distinctive feature like red hair or unusual height. When Kristine performs, she wears costumes and cosmetics so that she scarcely looks like herself, much less like me. Since my circle of acquaintance is small, there are few people in a position to notice the resemblance. No one has made the connection yet."

He smiled. "I take your point, but you do yourself and your sister less than justice. Though your features may not be flamboyant, the total effect is… memorable." His gaze went to the heavy coil of hair at her nape. If loosened, it would fall past her waist. "For example, your hair might be dismissed as merely brown, but it is still lovely. Thick, shiny, and shimmering with gold highlights."

She touched her head self-consciously, then stopped in midgesture. "I should have thought of it sooner—our hair is the one obvious difference between my sister and me. Mine has never been cut, but Kristine shortened hers to make it easier to wear wigs." A triumphant gleam showed in her eyes. "Even the cleverest of actresses couldn't grow this much hair in the interval since you last saw my sister, Lord Strathmore. Does that finally convince you that we are two different women?"

A vivid mental image of soft hair brushing Cassie James's shoulders flashed through his mind. He uttered a mental oath. Damnation, but his brain was failing. He should have noticed himself. A different apparent hair length was not absolute proof that he was dealing with two separate women, but it came close. "You could be wearing a switch of false hair."

She rolled her eyes. "You're a suspicious man, but even you must admit that if I am using a switch, it is an exact match for my natural hair."

She was correct again; her warm, subtly gilded brown tresses were entirely consistent. Hah? joking, he said, "For proof positive, I would have to pull out the pins so your hair could fall freely."

Her eyes narrowed like an aggrieved feline. "Enough, Lord Strathmore. A certain amount can be forgiven because you confused me with my sister, but I will not permit further assaults on my person. Surely, even rakes know that the rules are different for actresses and ladies."

He had to laugh. "You've routed me completely, Lady Kathryn. One last question before I take my leave. Besides her acting, does your sister write political essays under the name L. J. Knight?"

Kathryn's brows arched. "Of course not. She is an excellent actress, but certainly not a writer. What ever gave you such a foolish idea?"

"Kristine did."

"She must have given a truly superior performance if she convinced you that a twenty-four-year-old girl could write with the perception of L. J. Knight."

"She's a very persuasive young woman." Making a guess based on something he had heard in her voice, he asked, "Do you know Mr. Knight yourself?"

"Not personally, but Aunt Jane does. According to her, he is an aging invalid with a sharp tongue and little patience for human foibles. They deal very well together."

If Kathryn knew that about Knight, undoubtedly Kristine did too, which would explain why she had known it was safe to claim his identity. It all made sense.

Getting to his feet, Lucien said, "You've been very helpful, Lady Kathryn. I'm sorry if I distressed you earlier."

"That's not a true groveling apology, but I will accept it anyhow." She gave him a level look. "You're not going to hurt Kristine when you find her, are you?"

"No." He smiled wryly. "Besides, I haven't the foggiest notion where she is. Unless you can tell me?"

"Even if I knew, I wouldn't tell you, Lord Strathmore. I may not approve of the life Kristine has chosen, but she is still my sister."

He had not expected anything else. "Very well. Until next time, Lady Kathryn."

"I sincerely hope that there will never be another time," she said with a return to her earlier acerbity. "Considering the length of time we have been closeted together, it would be best if we left separately. I'll wait here for a few minutes."

He hesitated as if on the verge of saying something more, then settled for a bow and a formal farewell.

After the study door closed, Kit leaned back in her chair, shaking. Had Strathmore believed her? He had seemed to, but she was unsure; he was a difficult man to read. She wondered what he would do with the information he had pried out of her. Though he might not be an enemy, that didn't mean that he wasn't a danger.

Danger…

She shivered as a disturbingly vivid memory of how it had felt to be in his arms flashed through her mind. Dear Lord, she should have slapped him sooner instead of clinging to him like ivy! She had not behaved at all like the prim, ladylike Kathryn Travers who had inherited a double share of propriety. But she had felt so good, so blessedly safe, that she had been temporarily paralyzed. The Travers part of her was shameless.

She found herself rubbing the itchy spot inside her thigh, and instantly dropped her hand. Thank heaven he hadn't seen the tattoo. If he had, she would
really
be in trouble.

Lucien had trouble falling asleep after he returned from the salon. When he did, his dreams were disturbing. He found himself trapped in a swirling, featureless fog that hid all landmarks. As he inched his way forward, knowing that he had a vital mission to perform, he suddenly saw his lovely, elusive Lady Nemesis just ahead of him, her slim body clothed only in mist. Her beauty caught at his heart.

She smiled and extended her hand. He stepped forward eagerly, but before they could touch, her expression changed to horror. She turned and fled. Ignoring the menacing shapes that surrounded them, he raced in pursuit, determined to claim her. She led him to a castle built of stones as dark as death. Sensing that it would be disastrous to enter, he called a warning, but she plunged recklessly through the black arch.

Grimly, he followed. He emerged into a bright chamber filled with mirrors, every one of them reflecting a different image of her. She was a frightened chambermaid, a worldly, provocative actress, a cool intellectual— every guise he had seen and many that he had not.

And through the hall echoed the desolate sounds of a woman weeping with anguish.

Desperate to help, he reached out to a sad-eyed image—Kristine? Kathryn?—and banged his hand into the cold, impervious surface of a mirror.

Behind him a husky voice whispered, "Help me, Lucien—in the name of God, please help me."

He whirled about, but could not tell which of the glittering reflections was real. Increasingly frantic, he searched through the hall until his lungs burned and his hands bled from smashing into an infinity of mirrors. But he could not find the warm, flesh-and-blood reality of the woman he sought—only mirrors and cruelly mocking images.

He awoke, shaking and possessed by a feeling of doom, though he wasn't sure if the doom was his or hers. Perhaps it was mutual. He forced himself to lie back on the pillows and relax, muscle by muscle.

As his breathing steadied, he had the wry thought that at least he wasn't experiencing the paralyzing emptiness he had known after the sordid encounter with Lola. With his Lady Nemesis, the problem was not too little emotion, but too much, most of it frustration.

Though Lucien was nine-tenths convinced that his quarry was Kristine Travers, a volatile actress with a very proper twin sister, he was too experienced to accept Kathryn's story without confirmation. His Great-aunt Josephine, the dowager Countess of Steed, might be able to tell him what he needed to know. She had a very long ear for gossip; it was a family trait.

Fortunately, his aunt was willing to receive him at an unfashionably early hour. Tiny and silver-haired, she sat by a fire, swaddled in shawls, when he was shown into her morning room. "Ring for tea, my boy," she ordered. "Then come here and give your old aunt a kiss."

After he had obeyed, she waved him into a chair opposite hers. "Have you come here to tell me that you are on the verge of matrimony?"

He laughed. "The answer is the same as always: no. I promise that if lever change my mind, you'll be one of the first to know, but for now, you'll have to content yourself with sprigs from other branches of the family tree."

Lady Steed nodded her head, unsurprised. "Then you're probably here to pry facts from my doddering old brain."

"Doddering—you? Your mind and memory are as sharp as a Florentine dagger."

She tried to scowl reprovingly, but couldn't conceal her smile. "What do you want to know this time?"

"You have friends in Westmoreland, don't you?"

"The Miltons, near Kendal. The dowager and I have been bosom bows for almost sixty years. I visit them for a fortnight every summer on my way to Scotland. The current viscount is my godson." She peered balefully over her gold-rimmed half-spectacles. "Lord Milton married at twenty-two and has three sons now. There's a man who knows his duty to his family."

Ignoring her gibe with the skill of long practice, he asked, "Did you ever meet a Lord Markland there?"

"Oh, yes, a charming man, though quite worthless. His estate was only a few miles from Milton Hall." She sniffed. "All he could manage to produce was a pair of twin daughters. After he died, the title went to an American cousin, so I expect it's effectively extinct. As I understand it, Americans don't hold with such things as titles."

Before she could digress into the virtues of the hereditary aristocracy, Lucien said, "Tell me about the twin daughters. Did you ever meet them?"

"Almost every time I visited the Miltons. They were a lovely pair of girls, Kristine and Kathryn, both with a
K
. The Traverses have always been known for having odd kicks in their gallops." She shook her head. "Markland neglected his daughters shamefully. Anne Milton was fond of the girls, so she did her best to teach them how to get on in society."