Dancing on the Wind (5 page)

Suddenly serious, Rafe asked, "Is it tiring to always have to know the answer?"

"Very," Lucien said tersely, his smile fading.

After a long silence the duke said quietly, "No one man can save the world, no matter how hard he works."

"That doesn't mean one shouldn't try, Rafael." Lucien gave his friend a wry glance. "The trouble with old friends is that they know too much."

"True," Rafe said peaceably. "That's also the advantage."

"Here's to friendship." Lucien raised his glass, then took a deep swallow of brandy. It was ironic that he and his three closest friends from Eton had acquired the nickname of Fallen Angels when they had descended on London after leaving Oxford; except for Lucien himself, they were the most honorable of men. When tragedy had shattered Lucien's childhood, what saved him was the blithe good nature of Nicholas, the calm acceptance of Rafe, the unswerving loyalty of Michael. If it hadn't been for them, loneliness and
grief would have consumed him.

He knew how incredibly fortunate he was in his friends. It was no one's fault that even deep friendship could not repair the damage to a soul that had been torn in half.

As he drained his glass, he remembered the incident in the hall. "I had to separate Roderick Harford from one of your chambermaids, a girl named Kitty. He wanted to expand her duties in a way that didn't appeal to her."

Rafe grimaced. "Harford is an oaf. I hope you won't ask me to invite him here again; that might strain even the bonds of old friendship. Is the girl all right?"

"Shaken but not injured. I told her to skip the rest of her duties and go to bed—that I would make it right with you."

"Very well. I'll speak with the housekeeper in the morning to make sure the girl isn't punished for dereliction of duty." Yawning, Rafe got to his feet. "Will you leave with the others tomorrow, or stay on for a few days?"

"I'll be going back to London. I have a long way to go before I become a real Hellion."

"Oh, I don't know about that. Just think back to that first year when we were all in London."

They both laughed, then Rafe left. Lucien continued gazing at the fire. As a man who disliked excess, he wasn't looking forward to trying to infiltrate the Hellions. Yet he had no choice. Though what he had told Rafe was the truth as far as it went, what he hadn't said was that his finely honed hunter's instincts were in full cry.

The original Hellfire Club of fifty years earlier had been notorious both for its debauchery and for its exalted membership, which included many of the most influential men in England. The club had been founded by Sir Francis Dashwood, a man of great wealth and inventive depravity. Besides raising vice to new heights, members had reveled in mocking religion and had played political games with far-reaching consequences. If not for the Hellfire Club, it was quite possible that the American Colonies would not have revolted and become a separate nation.

The Hellions of the present day made no such exalted claims. In theory, it was only a jolly drinking and wenching society, little different from a dozen similar groups. Yet Lucien sensed there was something very wrong going on behind the group's facade, and he intended to discover what.

A pity that he didn't enjoy orgies.

The next morning the great hall of Bourne Castle was noisy as the guests and their servants prepared to leave. Under cover of the racket, the duke said to Lucien, "I asked the housekeeper about that chambermaid. Harford has cost me a servant—it was the girl's first day on the job, and apparently he distressed her so much that she ran off in the middle of the night."

Lucien thought of the maid's air of vulnerability. "She seemed shy. I hope she has the sense to seek her next job in a quieter establishment. A vicar's manse, perhaps."

"One odd thing—the housekeeper said that the girl's name was Emmie Brown, not Kitty."

Surprised, Lucien said, "Could it be two different girls?"

"No, Emmie Brown was unquestionably the chambermaid you talked to, and there is no other Kitty employed in the household."

Lucien shrugged. "Perhaps Kitty is a childhood nickname that the girl blurted out because she was upset."

It was a plausible explanation. Yet as he drove back to London, more than once he found himself wondering about the girl with two names. It gave her an air of mystery, and he did not like mysteries.

The next step in Lucien's campaign to become accepted by the Hellions took place the evening after his return to London, when he visited a tavern called the Crown and Vulture, site of the group's monthly carouse. Roderick Harford had invited him to come and said that his brother, Lord Mace, would be there.

A cold rain was falling, and Lucien was glad to enter the smoky warmth of the tavern. The taproom at the front was full of roughly dressed working men. After one look at Lucien's expensive clothing, the bartender jerked a thumb over his shoulder "Yer fine friends are that way."

As Lucien walked down the hall to the back of the building, a roar of laughter met him. The Hellions were in a good mood.

He paused in the doorway to survey the room. It was his first visit to the Crown and Vulture. Lit by a fire and a handful of candles, it was a welcoming scene on a wintry night. About two dozen men lounged around the tables, tankards in their hands. Most were young, but several older men were also present.

There was also one woman, a saucy barmaid who was trading quips with her customers. Tall and voluptuous, she had a heavily painted face and an untidy mass of garish red curls rioting from beneath her cap. Her amazing figure was further emphasized by the apron tied around a remarkably slim waist.

What held the men enthralled, however, was her quick cockney tongue. When a youth asked reproachfully, "Why have you taken an instant dislike to me?" she replied tartly, "It saves time."

A burst of laughter rang out. After it died down, another youth declaimed, "You've won my heart, darling Sally. Come away with me tonight and we'll ride to Gretna Green."

"Go all that way on a bony nag?" She waggled her lush hips suggestively. "I can find me a better ride here in London."

The double entendre produced more hilarity. When it quieted, her suitor said with an exaggerated leer, "You'll find no better rider than me, Sally."

"Be off with you, lad," she scoffed. "You don't know a thing about riding, and I can prove it."

"How?" he asked indignantly.

She tilted her pitcher and splashed more drink into his tankard. "By pointing out that if the world was a sensible place, all men would ride sidesaddle."

Her comment brought the house down. Even Lucien laughed out loud. Having won the encounter, the wench strolled from the room, swaying provocatively. She had an earthy sensuality that would catch the attention of any man.

"So Lucifer has deigned to call. My brother said that you might," a deep voice drawled. "You should feel quite at home amongst the denizens of hell."

Lucien glanced to his right and saw Lord Mace lounging in a corner from which he could watch everything that went on in the room. As tall and lean as his younger brother, Mace was a compelling figure with dark hair and lightless eyes.

Taking Mace's comment as an invitation, Lucien ambled over to the empty seat next to him. "I'll do my best."

He started to say more, then stopped, arrested by an unexpected sight. Behind Mace stood a wooden perch, and on it was a huge hooded bird that moved restively from one foot to the other. "Who is your feathered friend?"

Mace's thin lips stretched into a smile. "That's George, the vulture this place is named for. The tavern owner used to be an actor, and he rents the bird out whenever a theater needs one." He glanced affectionately at the vulture. "Lends a nice touch, don't you think?"

"Definitely atmospheric," Lucien agreed.

Sally appeared with a full pitcher in one hand and a tankard in the other. She plunked the tankard in front of Lucien. "Here you go, my 'andsome lad. Enjoy your devil's punch."

Then she undulated away. Her eyes had been averted, and her face was obscured by her garish hair, but the fleeting glimpse he had of her features showed that she was so heavily painted that she might be trying to cover up smallpox scars. Not that it mattered; few men would bother to look as far as her face.

The tankard proved to contain mulled ale with a hefty dose of spirits added. "I see why this is called devil's punch," he observed. "It burns like the fires of hell."

"After two tankards, you'll be able to recite scripture backward," Mace said with sardonic humor.

"Or I'll think I can, which comes to much the same thing." Lucien nodded toward the barmaid. "Does she ever attend your ceremonies? She looks like a lively piece."

Mace's eyes narrowed. "What do you know about our rituals?"

"Rumor says that the Hellions dress as medieval monks. After a ceremony, each 'monk' chooses a partner from among a group of 'nuns' enlisted from the ranks of London's better prostitutes. It's said that some of the nuns are actually society ladies out for a lark." Lucien gave a wicked chuckle. "I heard that once a monk and nun were appalled to rip off their robes and discover that they were husband and wife."

Mace's heavy brows drew together. "You're well informed."

"When half your members drink like fish, you can hardly expect secrecy." Lucien gave a faint smile. "I thought your group sounded amusing. Life has been getting dull lately, which is why I accepted your brother's invitation."

"We do our best to stave off boredom." Mace studied Lucien's face, frank skepticism in his eyes. "Roderick said that you were interested in joining us. I was surprised. You give the impression of being too fastidious, too much the dandy, to want to be part of a group dedicated to dissipation."

"I enjoy contrasts. I also enjoy intrigue." Lucien made a minute adjustment to his cuff. "Most of all, I enjoy confounding people's expectations."

Mace smiled faintly. "Then we have something in common."

"We have other mutual interests, I think. I've heard that you're interested in mechanical toys." When Mace nodded again, Lucien pulled a cone-shaped silver object from his pocket. "Have you ever seen anything like this? Look through the small end."

Mace raised the cone to his eye and peered inside, then sucked his breath in. "Fascinating. It holds some kind of lens that breaks the world into a number of identical images?"

"Exactly." Lucien drew a second one from his pocket and looked through it. The room immediately splintered into multiple images. "I know a natural philosopher who is interested in insects. He once told me that dragonflies have faceted eyes and must see this way. It sounded intriguing, so I decided to try to reproduce the effect. A lens grinder made these lenses to my specifications, and I had them mounted. For lack of a better name, I call it a dragonfly lens."

He blinked when his casual sweep of the room brought Sally into view. A dozen pairs of lush breasts swayed before him, and a dozen slim waists. The effect was rather overpowering.

"Do you make other mechanical curiosities?" Mace asked.

Lucien lowered the dragonfly lens, reducing Sally to singularity again. "I design and build the mechanisms myself, but I have a silversmith make the exteriors."