Dancing on the Wind (45 page)

It was late, almost midnight. After escorting Kit home from the theater and sending her off to bed, Lucien turned his attention to some of the work he had been neglecting in favor of the search for Kira. When a soft knock sounded on his study door, he answered absently, his mind full of the figures he had been analyzing.

As soon as he recognized the tall, travel-stained man who entered, he snapped back to the present. Leaping to his feet, he moved around his desk, his hand outstretched. "Good Lord, is that you, Michael, or am I hallucinating?"

Lord Michael Kenyon smiled and clasped Lucien's hand in both of his. "No hallucination. I knocked, but your servants have all retired so I used the key you gave me last year."

"Do you want something to eat?"

"No thanks, I had a substantial dinner in Berkshire. But I wouldn't say no to a drink."

Lucien waved his friend to a seat. "I didn't think you could possibly reach London for at least another couple of days. What did you do, hitch a ride with a passing falcon?"

Michael sprawled wearily onto the leather-upholstered sofa, his mud-spattered boots and breeches a mute testimony to his long journey from Wales. "I was rather disturbed by your message, so I decided to make all due speed. What's wrong?"

Thinking how fortunate he was to have friends who would come instantly, without questions, Lucien opened a cabinet and brought out a decanter of the Scottish whiskey that Michael favored. "A kidnapping, and time is running out." After pouring them each a generous measure of whiskey, he sat and succinctly told the story of Kira and Kit.

Michael listened without comment, his lean body relaxed, but his green eyes sharply alert. At the end of the recital he said, "I assume that you've considered cornering each of your suspects and beating the truth out of them."

Trust Michael to suggest the pragmatic solution. "Believe me, I've thought of that," Lucien admitted, "but we have too many suspects, and there is a distinct chance that the true villain is not among them. I'm afraid that it won't do to brutalize a number of wealthy, powerful men without more evidence."

Michael grinned. "One thing I've always liked about you is that you don't waste time being principled during a crisis."

"A characteristic we share," Lucien pointed out. "It is not generally considered a virtue."

"Principles are sometimes an unaffordable luxury." Michael eyed his host quizzically. "Though you didn't say as much, I get the impression that you are motivated as much by a desire to help Lady Kathryn as by general nobility."

"You guessed correctly. I have every intention of marrying her after we've
found her sister.

Michael's dark brows rose. "You look rather glum for a prospective bridegroom."

"There are… complications." Lucien stared into his glass. Since the attempted abduction, he and Kit had been circling each other as warily as her two cats. He knew that she was under a terrible strain, and he accepted her desire to avoid physical intimacy while searching for her sister.

Nonetheless, he felt she was silently slipping away from him, and he had no idea how to stop that. In the beginning he had been confident that he could win her heart, but he was beginning to fear that when… if… she got Kira back, he would lose Kit entirely, for she would no longer need him. "Michael, why do men and women drive each other to distraction? And why do we keep reaching out to each other anyhow?"

Michael leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, cradling his whiskey glass between his hands. "I'm the last person to ask for advice about women, Luce," he said wryly. "My record in that area is dismal. But for what it's worth, women have something that men need— and I don't mean the obvious." Lucien glanced up. "Then what do you mean?" His friend hesitated before answering. "Males and females are complimentary. Often that means that we're opposites, with all of the conflict that implies, but it also means that we complete each other. A good woman has a warmth, an accepting quality, that is a blessed relief from all the sharp edges one meets in life." He smiled. "Think of Nicholas's wife."

"If only there were ten thousand more like Clare." "I'll drink to that." Michael lifted his glass in a toast, then downed the rest of the contents. "But I gather there were a fair number of rocks in the road on their journey toward marital bliss. Nicholas and Clare have earned what they have."

Lucien's mind skipped back to a conversation he'd had with a worried Clare before her wedding. "I'd forgotten that. Thank you for the most encouraging words I've had in days."

"Wisdom offered free, and worth every penny."

 Lucien laughed, his heart lighter. With Michael beside them, surely they would succeed in finding Kira. And then, by God, he would convince Kit that she needed him as much as he needed her.

Lady Jane's casual chaperonage extended only to spending her nights at Strathmore House. During the day she returned to her own home and went about her usual business. For that reason Kit breakfasted in her room so that she would not run the risk of being alone with Lucien. They were managing to rub along tolerably well during their surreptitious expeditions to Hellion-owned estates, and she didn't want to jeopardize that. She was also afraid what she might say, or do, if she spent too much time with him. Nonetheless, she missed his companionship dreadfully.

After breakfasting, she dressed and tried to work on an essay about the proposed Corn Laws, but she found it impossible to concentrate on protectionist trade policies. She had not written a decent article since Kira's abduction.

Restless, she left the room and went to the portrait gallery on the third floor, which she had been meaning to explore. It would be interesting to see if Lucien's relatives were all as handsome as he. She doubted that was possible.

When she entered the gallery, she saw a tall, brown-haired figure at the far end. Glad to have the company of her cousin, she called, "Good morning, Jason."

The man turned and she realized that he was a stranger, taller than Jason and not as thin. His hair was also a little lighter, with a touch of russet visible in the winter sun.

Coming toward her with a smile, he said, "Sorry, we haven't been introduced. I'm Michael Kenyon, a friend of Lucien's. You must be Lady Kathryn Travers."

"Indeed I am." She moved forward and offered her hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you. It's actually Lord Michael, isn't it? Lucien has mentioned you."

"To any friend of Lucien's, plain Michael will do." He bowed over her hand. As he straightened, she saw that his eyes were a remarkable shade of green, not Lucien's changeable green-gold but a true emerald.

"Then you must call me Kit." She studied his face. Even if she had not already known that Michael had been a soldier, she would have guessed that from his quality of steely, contained strength. "Lucien said he was going to send for his most dangerous friend. I gather that is you?"

"I suppose so, but if Luce wants someone who is dangerous, he need only look in a mirror. I'm merely a retired soldier who has gone to grass like an old cavalry horse."

She smiled, liking his dry sense of humor. "Yet you are willing to come out of retirement for my sister's sake. You have my most profound gratitude."

"I hope I can be of service." He gave her a long, appreciative male glance. "There is really another like you?"

"Yes, only more so. You'll see soon, I hope." Since thinking of her sister would make her anxious, she continued, "I came down to take a look at the pictures. Are you familiar with Lucien's family?"

"Yes, and what I don't know, I can invent." He nodded toward the portrait of a blond gentleman in Cavalier dress. "That's Gareth, the third earl, I believe. He supported the Royalists during the Civil War, but took the precaution of having his brother become a Puritan. When the Royalists went into exile, the brother took over the family estates and swore his allegiance to Cromwell. After the Restoration, Gareth came back, reclaimed his lands, and made sure that his brother was amply compensated for his stewardship of the Fairchild interests."

Kit examined the cool, ironic face. "Lucien said once that he comes from a long line of pragmatists."

"It's why the Fairchilds have survived so many of the vicissitudes of British history." Michael indicated another portrait, this of a dandyish gentleman in the elaborate garments of a hundred years earlier. Beside him stood an elegant lady in flowing green silk. "That's the fifth earl, Charles, and his wife, Maria. He was quite dissolute and a heedless gamester. His son inherited at the age of six when Charles died under suspicious circumstances."

She glanced askance. "Is that true, or did you make it up?"

He chuckled. "That's the story Lucien told me. He claims that there was speculation that Maria had decided to preserve her son's patrimony at the price of her husband's life. Perhaps the story is true, or perhaps it is only Lucien's antic sense of humor. He doesn't take his elevated ancestors very seriously."

"That's better than taking them too seriously."

His levity vanished. "A failing of the Kenyons, I fear."

Kenyon
… Kit should have recognized the name sooner. "Your father is the Duke of Ashburton?"

"Yes," he said in a voice that made further questions impossible. He nodded to the portrait at the end of the wall. "Have you ever seen this painting? It's of Lucien and his family when he was nine or ten."

To look at the picture was to know that this had been a real family, not a mere dynastic union. The evidence was in the intimate way the countess's hand curved over her husband's arm; the fondness in the earl's eyes as he regarded his wife and children; the shared laughter of Lucien and the elfin girl with silvery blond hair flowing over her slender shoulders. Kit felt an ache in her throat at the sight. Lucien had lost so much, so young. Yet what could have destroyed him had made him strong. Softly she asked, "Did you know his family well?"

"Quite." He gazed at the canvas, his expression distant. "I didn't like spending holidays with my own family, so my friends usually took me home like a stray pup. Ashdown was my favorite place to visit because Lucien's parents were so happy together. That's not a common state among the nobility."

Kit's gaze went to the small blond girl whose radiant smile transcended the years. "And Lady Elinor?"

"She was enchanting," he said simply. "Bright and sweet and quick. She and Lucien had the most remarkable relationship. In my experience not all brother and sister twins are so close, but I think her delicate health drew them together. He was very protective of her. Her death devastated him."

There was a note in his voice that made her look quickly into his face. "And you as well?"

After a long silence he replied, "I missed them all, but especially Elinor. Though she looked like a spun-sugar angel, she was a very definite young lady. On my first visit to Ashdown, she decided that we would suit and informed me that we would marry when we were of age. I accepted her proposal quite willingly." After another long silence he said, "If she had lived…" He turned abruptly away from the portrait. "It was only childish fancy, of course. It meant nothing."

Obviously it had meant a great deal, even after so many years. The story brought Lady Elinor alive for Kit.

She must have been as clever as her brother, for even as a small child she had been able to identify a boy who would grow into an admirable man. "Thank you for telling me so much, Michael. I want to learn as much about Lucien's past as I can."

He gave her a piercing glance. "It's information that comes at a price. Try not to hurt him, Kit. Luce deserves better."

She caught her breath at the unexpectedness of his remark. "Believe me, the last thing I want to do is hurt Lucien."

Whatever he saw in her face must have satisfied him. Casual again, he said, "Down here is a portrait of the seventh earl. In the eyes of society he disgraced himself by dabbling in trade, but was redeemed by making pots of money in the process."

Eccentric relations were so much more comfortable than vanished happiness.

That night, her escort increased to three, Kit went to Blackwell Abbey, Mace's estate. It had been left until last because she had been there before and found no traces of Kira, but the estate was so large that there were areas that she could not have sensed from the house.

As with the other estates, Lucien had obtained a detailed map, this one drawn by a local man who had once worked there. It showed every cottage, every field, every footpath, as well as the stone wall that enclosed the entire property.

Before setting out, each of them had studied the map so that they could find their way unseen in the dark. Even so, the survey would have been impossible without Michael. Not only did he have the night vision of a cat, but he seemed to carry the map in his head. Like an army scout in hostile terrain, he led them on a weaving course carefully calculated to take Kit within a few hundred yards of every section of the estate.

Lucien traveled by her side, making sure she would not stumble because her attention was turned inward rather than on the rough ground. Behind them, moving with the soft-footed grace of a forest hunter, came Jason Travers. In their dark clothing, all of them were shadows in a moonless night.

Blackwell Abbey disturbed her in ways she could not define. As they made a wide circle around the manor house, she stopped and stared at its dark, ominous silhouette. The men halted. "Do you sense something?" Lucien asked in a voice that would not have been audible ten feet away.

She was acutely aware that within those brick walls she and Lucien had become lovers, and she had the uneasy certainty that he was thinking the same thing. Yet that was not what had stopped her. "There is something about this place. Kira isn't there now. I don't think she ever was. Yet I feel that there is… is some connection with her."

"Perhaps someone at Blackwell Abbey has been with her?"

"Perhaps." She bit her lip, wanting to shriek with frustration. "This is like being blindfolded and dropped into a crowd, then having to identify someone by scent."