Dancing on the Wind (40 page)

"I'm afraid not." He sat down, his face becoming serious as he pulled out a slip of paper and handed it to her. "Are any of those men customers of yours?"

"You know I don't discuss such things, Strathmore," she said disapprovingly. "My gentlemen expect me to be discreet."

"I understand and respect that, but I'm hoping you might bend your rules this time. It's highly likely that one of these men has abducted a gently bred young actress and is forcing her to participate in the sort of activities your customers enjoy."

Dolly frowned. "That's not right.Games are only good if folks participate freely and respect each other's limits. It's best when done with real caring." She looked down at the list "I don't think it would be this first one, Harford. I know of him, but he's never been in here. Sometimes he visits a regular brothel run by a friend of mine. I think he's a plain bread-and-butter type like you."

Lucien looked pained. "I would prefer that you not make comparisons between Harford and me."

She grinned and looked down again. "The others have all visited, though none are really regulars. They come more to add a bit of variety to their lives. Mace is strictly a dominant—quite good at administering discipline. Chiswick will do it either way, sometimes the master, sometimes the slave. Westley is strictly passive—fond of shackles and goes wild when his feet are tickled. Nun-field." She tapped a long, sharp fingernail on the paper. "He goes too far. After his last visit, I told him not to come back."

"Based on your knowledge of these men, is there one you would pick as most likely to be behind an abduction?"

She hesitated. "Nunfield, maybe, but it's hard to say. They're all the sort who are too bloody used to getting their own way. That could include kidnapping and whipping some respect into a girl who hadn't been properly deferential."

"Actually, I have reason to believe the young woman is being forced to play the mistress."

Dolly pursed her lips. "Strange. I wouldn't expect a man who likes being dominated to try something as aggressive as abduction. Still, one never knows." She handed the list back. "I hope that helped."

"It did." He got to his feet. "Thank you, Dolly. I appreciate your cooperation."

"Let me know if you find the girl," she said somberly. "A bloke who would kidnap a young woman and force her to do something against her nature is capable of anything."

Lucien said softly, "That's what I'm afraid of."

Lucien was working in his study when Jason Travers emerged after a lengthy rest. Bathed, shaved, and dressed in his host's clothing, he looked quite presentable, though the garments hung loosely on his gaunt frame. Lucien gestured for him to come into the study. "Good afternoon. How are you feeling?"

The American entered and began prowling restlessly around the room. "Somewhat more sane than I did last night, though I haven't ruled out the possibility that I finally caught jail fever and this is all a hallucination."

"Have my servants been taking good care of you?"

"Very much so." Humor glinted in his dark eyes. "They all call me Lord Markland. I have trouble remembering that's me."

Lucien leaned back in his oak chair. "It seemed a reasonable precaution. Even if the authorities are searching for you, they won't connect an earl with an escaped prisoner of war."

"Certainly
I'm
having trouble making the connection." The American's gaze roved over the shelves of leather-bound books, graceful furniture gleaming with wax, the muted richness of the carpet beneath his feet. "Everything I see is a feast for the senses. After the grayness of a prison ship, it's rather overpowering. I had coffee, a soft-boiled egg, and toast for breakfast. Ambrosia." He touched the petals in a bouquet of fresh flowers that sweetly scented the room, his fingertips caressing the silky surface with reverence. "I gathered from your servants that you're a lord yourself."

Lucien inclined his head formally. "The ninth Earl of Strathmore, last in a long line of men who knew which side to back in a power struggle and how to quit a game of cards when they were ahead. Not the most heroic of traits, but they have given the family longevity."

Jason studied his host. "Perhaps being a lord doesn't mean a man has to be totally worthless."

Lucien grinned. "American directness is so refreshing."

The other man flushed. "Sorry, I didn't mean that the way it sounded. I've forgotten how to behave in normal society." He lifted an antique hourglass that sat in the bookcase and caressed the polished walnut, then turned it over and watched the white sand trickle from the top globe to the bottom. "Two years of my life gone, and not a damned thing to show for it."

"In time, the unbearable memories will fade," Lucien said quietly. "At least, that's what I'm told by a friend who spent several wretched years fighting the French on the Peninsula. You're welcome to stay here as long as you wish—as you can see, there is plenty of space. Or if you prefer, I can assist you to the Continent, where you can take ship to America or wait in safety until the war ends. There's an excellent chance that a treaty will be settled by the end of the year."

"Amen to that. But I'm not leaving England until I know about Kira." Setting the hourglass back on its shelf, he continued, "That being the case, I might as well enjoy your excellent hospitality, but you must keep an account of my expenses." He fingered the superfine wool of his blue coat. "I've transported enough fabric in my ships to know top quality when I see it."

Lucien said equably, "I'll keep track of every ha'penny and add a modest charge for interest."

"Thank you for humoring me." Jason's expression turned grim. "Now tell me everything about Kira's disappearance."

Lucien explained everything they knew or guessed. He ended with a description of Kit's nightmare and the fragmentary information received through mesmerism, repeating the exact words as closely as he could.

The American's face became rigid, only his eyes showing emotion. At the end of the recital he said with lethal precision, "When the man who abducted Kira is found, I am going to slice him into very small pieces with a very dull knife."

"You might have to wait in line for the privilege," Lucien said dryly.

"That part about her not seeing the new year—do you think she meant that literally? Christ, January isn't much more than a fortnight away!"

"In a few more days we should have enough information to act." Though his words were reassuring, Lucien's gaze went back to the antique hourglass. He could not escape the ghoulish thought that the hours of Kira's life were trickling away as inexorably as the sand. And if she died, he might lose Kit forever to grief.

Lord Chiswick peered over the railing of the box. "Whenever I attend the theater, I have a nearly irresistible desire to throw rotten fruit at the low creatures in the pit."

"The actors wouldn't thank you for it," Lucien remarked. "The fruit would almost certainly end up being pitched at them."

Lord Mace took a pinch of snuff. "Only if the actors deserve it, I'm sure."

Nunfield said, "Perhaps we should summon an orange girl up here and buy all her stock in case it is needed."

"There shouldn't be much rotten fruit tonight," Ives said cheerfully. "I understand the play is quite amusing."

"I hope so," Nunfield drawled. "Otherwise, I may abuse your hospitality and leave in the middle,
Strathmore. There's a new gaming club in Pair Mall that is supposed to be quite special, and I want to pay a visit tonight."

"If the play is a bore, I'll go with you," Lucien said casually. It was fortunate that all of his suspects except Harford had been free to accept his invitation to the theater. To avoid being too obvious, he'd also invited Lord Ives, who was always willing to visit the Marlowe so he could admire his Cleo.

Much of fashionable society had left town to spend the holidays on their estates, so a number of the best boxes were empty. The pit and gallery, however, were packed with Londoners anxious to see the first performance of
Scandal Street
.

To qualify as a concert, the program opened with the small orchestra playing a concerto grosso which was
largely ignored by the audience. Conversation died down when the music ended and the first act began. The plot involved the nefarious attempts of a corrupt merchant to discredit an honest government official, Sir Digby Upright. (The very notion of an honest government official produced a roar of laughter.)

The dialogue was witty and topical, taking swipes at current issues from the Prince Regent's extravagance to the peace negotiations
at Vienna and Ghent. The whole audience was amused, even the jaded sophisticates
in Lucien's box.

The climactic scene of the first act was a ball that Sir Digby gave to announce his daughter's betrothal. Unbeknownst to him, his enemy had arranged to disgrace him in front of his guests, which included many important members of the government. The scene started when Sir Digby halted the dancing to introduce his blushing daughter, played by a very demure Cleo Farnsworth, and her handsome young betrothed.

No sooner had he made his announcement than two comic cockneys marched onto the stage, carrying an enormous roll of carpet. As the guests stared, the cockneys unrolled the carpet in the middle of the ballroom. Sinuous as a serpent, Kit emerged from the carpet, wearing a brassy blond wig and a crimson satin gown that was almost as outrageous as the one Dolly had worn. Not only was it low in front, but the back was cut almost to her waist, exposing an enticing swath of creamy skin.

Lucien had placed himself at one end of the box so he could observe his companions without being obvious. At Kit's appearance, Ives and Westley simply laughed along with the rest of the audience. Chiswick leaned forward and crossed his arms on the railing, his expression intent. Elaborately casual, Nunfield leaned back and drummed his fingers on his knee, his sharp gaze fixed on the stage. Mace showed no reaction at all, except perhaps for a tightening of the lips.

Lucien cursed the shadows that obscured nuances of expression. Though he hadn't expected the villain to leap up and cry, "Guilty!" he had hoped for some hint, some sign of amazement or discomfort at the sight of "Cassie James." Not that the lack of reaction proved anything; all of the Disciples were expert gamesters, used to controlling their expressions.

To Sir Digby's horror, Kit kissed him with the appearance of long familiarity, insulted his wife and daughter, flirted with the entranced fiance, and gaily told the guests that "Diggy" supported her in great style because he was making so much money by accepting bribes. When Sir Digby sputtered a protest, she shushed him with a languid wave of her hand, a splendid female creature reveling in her power over the male of the species.

Kit turned to face the audience, her gaze lingering fractionally on Lucien's box. Then, with a clash of drums, she whirled into a dance of floating petticoats and slender flashing legs. Lucien tried to watch his companions, but his gaze was irresistibly drawn to Kit. Her vitality and stage presence riveted every eye in the house.

There was a new sensuality in her movements. In
The Gypsy Lass
she had artfully mimicked passion. Now passion had become part of her. Every curve of her hand, every graceful arch of her neck, every slanted, beckoning glance, was a promise of earthy delights. His body tightened with longing. The two days since he had seen her seemed like an eternity.