Dancing on the Wind (6 page)

"I do the same." Mace gave a small, secretive smile. "Over the years I have created a collection of mechanical devices that is utterly unique. Perhaps I'll show them to you some day."

When he tried to return the dragonfly lens, Lucien waved it away. "Keep it if you like. I had several made."

"Thank you." Mace regarded Lucien thoughtfully. "Would like to attend the next time we have a ritual?"

Success. "I'd be delighted."

Mace raised the lens again and studied Sally. "A rather overblown female. The girl who is usually here is more to my taste—slimmer, less vulgar."

"That's another thing we have in common."

A man approached to talk to Mace, so Lucien relinquished his seat. Tankard in hand, he surveyed his companions. Most of the Hellions reminded him of boisterous university students, more wild than wicked. Across the room a very drunk youth unbuttoned his breeches and said brashly, "See what I have for you, Sally?"

After one bored glance, she retorted, "I've seen better." In the howls of laughter that followed, the beet-faced young man buttoned himself while the barmaid sauntered from the room.

Lucien grinned, then turned his attention to the older Hellions, who included some of London's most notorious rakes. Several were sitting together, so he joined them when Sir James Westley beckoned.

"Glad to see you, Strathmore. Wanted to say how much I enjoyed the visit to Bourne Castle." The stout baronet gave a slight hiccup, then chased it with a mouthful of punch. "Good of you to arrange it with Candover. I've seen him give setdowns that would fell an elephant, but he was a very amiable host."

His neighbor was Lord Nunfield, a cousin of Mace and Roderick Harford who shared the same lanky build. In a bored drawl he said, "You're fortunate to have a friend who lives in such good hunting country, Strathmore." His mouth curled into a characteristic sneer. "I understand that you and Candover have been the
closest
of friends since school days."

The sexual innuendo was unmistakable. With deliberate ambiguity, Lucien said, "You know what school is like."

"Boys will be boys," agreed Harford. His gaze went to the barmaid, whose breasts bobbled delightfully as she poured punch at a nearby table. "But I think schools should have female students as well. It would make lessons much more interesting."

A spark of interest showed in the eyes of Lord Chiswick, the last man at the table. The son of a bishop, he had devoted his life to breaking as many of the Ten Commandments as possible. "I've been getting bored with false nuns. It might be amusing if our little playmates dressed as schoolgirls at the next service. A delightful contrast of innocence and experience."

Harford nodded thoughtfully. "Worth considering. Makes me think of the
gamekeeper's daughter, when I was fourteen." He began to describe the encounter
in detail that was as graphic as it was tedious. His anecdote was followed by
reminiscences from the others. Even Lucien contributed a story, though his was fabricated from whole cloth; it was not his custom to discuss his affairs with anyone.

It was a dull evening, with the conversation seldom rising above the waist. However, from Lucien's point of view the time was well spent By the time midnight struck, all of the Hellions seemed to have accepted him as one of their kind.

To counter boredom, he kept an idle eye on Sally during her frequent comings and goings. Tart and teasing, she was expert at amusing her customers while dodging occasional groping hands. She was hardly the sort of female who usually caught his fancy, but something about her intrigued him, an elusive sense of familiarity. Perhaps he had seen her somewhere before.

By one in the morning, most of the Hellions had left and Lucien was thinking that it was time to go home himself. Then he saw the most vocal of her youthful admirers, Lord Ives, lurch to his feet and purposefully follow the barmaid out of the room. Though she seemed quite capable of taking care of herself, Lucien was unable to suppress his protective instincts. After saying good night to those of his companions who were still awake, he rose and quietly followed Sally and Ives.

The old tavern was a maze of flagstoned passages.

Briskly the barmaid went down one, heels tapping, and turned left, then left again, ending in a storeroom half filled with kegs. Apparently unaware that Ives was close behind her, she set her candle on a keg, then stooped to draw off a pitcher of ale.

Lucien paused in the shadowed passage. If his assistance wasn't needed, he would fade away. It would be bad for his pose as a rake if he kept defending beleaguered damsels, and where the Hellions went, damsels appeared to be beleaguered regularly.

As the barmaid straightened, Ives asked in a slurred voice, "If you won't run off with me, pretty Sally, will you at least give me a quick tumble before I go home?"

She started, the ale sloshing from her pitcher, then said good-naturedly, "Even if I was willing, which I'm not, I doubt you'd be much use to me, lad. Alcohol may increase the desire, but it takes away the ability."

Lucien was startled to hear a Shakespearean quote from a barmaid. Still, there was no reason why Sally shouldn't enjoy the Bard as much as an aristocrat.

Less literary, Ives said, "If you doubt my ability, try me and I'll prove otherwise."

Her carroty curls bobbed as she shook her head. "My man is called Killer Caine, and he wouldn't like it one bit if I spread myself around." She gave Ives a playful push. "You go home to your bed, lad, and sleep off the punch alone."

"Give me a kiss, then. Just a kiss."

Before she could reply, he pulled her into an embrace, his mouth crushing hers and one hand squeezing her bounteous breast. Lucien guessed that Ives meant no real harm, but in his drunkenness he didn't realize his own strength, or notice that the woman was struggling to escape. Unpleasantly reminded of the chambermaid at Bourne Castle, Lucien decided to intervene.

He started forward, but before he could enter the storeroom, Sally stamped hard on her admirer's foot.

"Ouch!" Ives yelped and raised his head. Keeping his hand on her breast, he asked reproachfully, "Why did
you do that?"

"To get rid of you, lad," Sally said breathlessly.

"Don't go," he pleaded, his hand kneading the ripe globe that filled his palm.

She shoved against his chest and managed to break his hold. Before he could embrace her again, she snapped, " Tisn't me you want, it's
these
."

Reaching into her bodice, she wrenched out an enormous bust improver and threw it into her assailant's face. "Have a good time, lad."

Ives released Sally and rocked back on his heels as the soft, pillowlike object bounced off his nose and fell to the floor. After staring in befuddlement at the undulating cotton curves, he raised his gaze to the barmaid. The folds of her bodice now fell loosely over a chest of modest dimensions.

To his credit, the young man began laughing. "You're a false-hearted woman, Sally."

"It's not me heart that's false," she said pertly. "Now get along with you so I can do my work."

"I'm sorry—I behaved badly," he said. "Will you be here next time the Hellions meet?"

She shrugged. "Maybe yes, and maybe no."

Blowing her a kiss, Ives left the storeroom by the other door, which led toward the front of the tavern. Sally was watching him go when she heard Lucien's chuckle. She jumped, then spun and spotted him in the shadows. "If it isn't old Lucifer himself," she said waspishly. "Did you enjoy the show?"

"Immensely." He moved forward into the storeroom. "I had thought you might need help, but obviously I was mistaken."

"Lucifer to the rescue?" she said with heavy sarcasm. "And 'ere I thought you wanted a piece of my padded arse."

Now that the bust improver was gone, it was obvious that only her  slim waist had been natural. Take away the hip padding and she would have a lithe, feminine form that Lucien found more appealing than her exaggerated cotton curves. "Why do you conceal a figure that is perfectly pleasing as it is?"

"You may like scrawny females, but most men prefer a buxom wench with a bouncy backside." When he grinned, she said acidly, "You may think it's a joke, your bloomin' lordship, but that cotton stuffing puts three quid a week extra into my pockets."

"I'm not laughing at you," he assured her. "I admire cleverness wherever I find it."

She ducked her head, apparently discomfited by his compliment. In the silence that followed, he was very
aware
of her innate sensuality, which owed nothing to
her
fraudulent figure. He was close enough to see that
the
skin under her heavy paint was unpitted, and he guessed that she was younger than he had first thought. "You'd also be prettier without the paint."

She raised her head and gave him a fulminating glance. "I didn't ask for your opinion, my lord. Believe me, I
know
me own business best."

Her eyes were clear and light, though he couldn't identify the color in the dim light. Again experiencing a nagging sense of familiarity, he said, "I have the feeling I've seen you before. Have you ever been on the stage?"

She looked horrified. "I may be a barmaid, but there's no call to be insulting."

"Not all actresses are whores," he said mildly.

"Most of 'em are."

Before he could reply, a voice bellowed from the taproom, "Sally, where the 'ell are you?"

She scooped up the bust improver, then ostentatiously turned away. "If you'll excuse me, I have to put me bosom back."

He found that he was strangely reluctant to leave. Sally intrigued him, and he wanted to know more about her. The impulse was dismaying, for he had never been given to seducing servants. Lightly he said, "Tell Killer Caine that he's a lucky man."

Yet as he left the tavern, he found himself hoping that Lord Mace would invite the barmaid to the next orgy, and that Lucien would be able to recognize her in a nun's robe.

Kit leaned back against the kegs, her heart racing. How could she have been so foolish as to trade quips with one of her suspects? Particularly Lord Strathmore,whose lazy-lidded eyes missed nothing, and whose charm made him doubly menacing. The tavern must be haunted by the bawdy spirit of some long-gone barmaid who had taken possession of Kit's wits and tongue, for she had been unable to refrain from bandying words with him.

It must not happen again. Though Strathmore had not recognized her as the chambermaid from Bourne Castle, he had thought her familiar, and another meeting might be disastrous.

She had come to the Crown and Vulture because she thought that an evening working among the Hellions would give her a better understanding of their individual characters. The usual barmaid, Bella, had not wanted to miss such a lucrative party, but Kit had promised to pass along whatever tips she would receive and five pounds over that.

Tempted but wary, Bella had asked why a lady would want to do such a thing. Without so much as blinking, Kit had spun a glib tale about being the sister of one of the Hellions, and having made a wager that she could disguise herself so that her own brother wouldn't recognize her.

Amused by the idea, Bella had told Kit what to do, then introduced her as a cousin who would substitute that night since Bella was feeling poorly. On the whole, the evening had gone well. Kit's witticisms had disguised her lack of experience, and no one had suspected that she was a fraud.

"
Sally
!" the owner bellowed again. "Stop lazing in there and start cleaning the back room."

After molding the bust improver into a convincing shape, she wearily went back to work. It was exhausting to play a part so different from her own nature, but at least, she thought sourly, she was getting used to being mauled by amorous, drunken men. Soon she would be an expert at escaping unwanted embraces.

What would it be like to be kissed by Lord Strathmore? He would smile at her with those amused green-gold eyes, and his touch would be light and sure. A woman might not want to escape him…

The thought made her shiver and quicken her step. One thing she knew: he would not be like the others.

After Kit had cleaned the empty back room, she returned to the main taproom. A few tenacious souls still slouched on settles by the fire. She was preparing to leave when a customer rose and approached. Her wariness dissolved when she recognized the burly, powerful figure. With a surge of hope, she said, "You're up late, Mr. Jones. Have you news for me?"

He shook his head. "Nary a thing since our last talk. I came to escort you home."

Swallowing her disappointment, she murmured, "Bless you. I wasn't looking forward to walking the streets alone."

He cast an amused eye over her as she drew on her cloak. "You've grown, lass. I scarcely knew it was you."

She smiled faintly. "That was the general idea."

He lit the lantern he had brought and held the door open for her. Outside, she shivered and pulled her cloak closer against the chilling mist. "I'll go to Marshall Street tonight."

He nodded and they set off side by side, their way illuminated by the dim glow of the lantern. When they were well clear of the tavern, he asked, "Did you learn anything useful?"

"Only in a general sense. Most of the Hellions seem fairly harmless. My guess is that Chiswick, Mace, Nunfield, Harford, and Strathmore are most dangerous. The first four have a kind of coldness that makes them seem capable of any kind of wickedness." She paused to circle a particularly dank puddle. "I don't know what to make of Strathmore. There is something menacing about him, yet he was ready to intervene when one of the younger men cornered me in the keg room."

Mr. Jones muttered a blistering oath. "You shouldn't be putting yourself in a position where you must suffer such insults, miss."

Her mouth tightened. "I hope you are not going to waste our time by trying again to change my mind."

"I should know better than that by now, shouldn't I?" he said wryly. "Don't discount Strathmore. He may have had a chivalrous moment, but of all that lot, he has been the hardest to investigate. All of my inquiries have come to dead ends. The man's a mystery, and that makes him dangerous."