He tried sketching her several ways before giving up. None of the drawings seemed quite right. It was maddening to know that he might pass her on the street without recognizing her.
With a sigh, he leaned back in his chair and propped his feet on the desk. The blasted female was becoming an obsession. He had said that he would find her and he would, though locating a nameless young woman who might be anywhere in Great Britain was akin to searching for a black cat in a cellar at midnight.
But after he found her, what the devil was he to do with her? The raging lust he had felt at Chiswick's had subsided to a manageable level, but he still wanted to bed her and the consequences be damned. He had been depressed before and he would be again; at least brave, clever Jane would be worth the emotional price. But one did not seduce well-born virgins, which she certainly was, in spite of her devious actions.
Women like her were the sort one married.
Which meant that he had no right to seek her out. His gaze went to the sketch of himself and Elinor. He had long ago decided that he would never marry unless he found a woman with whom he could share the profound emotional intimacy that had been absent from his life for so long.
He would be a happier man if he had never known such closeness. Yet though he still ached for the loss, he could not be sorry that he had once had it.
He was returning to business when his butler entered to announce "Lord Aberdare is here to see you, my lord."
"Nicholas!" Lucien rose and shook the hand of his friend, who had entered on the butler's heels. "I didn't know you were coming to London."
"No more did I. But Rafe summoned me here for that vote about the peace negotiations in Ghent that he is putting before the House of Lords."
"Good Lord, he brought you all the way from Wales for that?" Lucien waved his guest to a chair as he reseated himself. "Mind you, Rafe is right—since the war with the Americans has turned into a stalemate, it makes no sense for Britain to demand territorial concessions. Rafe's resolution requests that the government soften its position and accept existing boundaries, which is the only way a settlement will be reached. But even if the resolution passes, it won't carry the force of law."
"True, but when the House of Lords barks, the government listens, and Rafe needs every vote he can get. That's why he sent for me." Nicholas dropped casually into a chair and stretched out his legs. "It's time to put an end to a war that never should have started in the first place."
"That's certainly true. It was mad to slide into a brawl with the United States when we were fighting for our lives against Napoleon. The sooner we make peace, the better."
"Particularly since our upstart cousins have begun winning the battles," Nicholas said wryly.
Lucien asked, "How is my favorite countess?"
"Clare is as calm as always." Nicholas gave a rueful smile. "I'm the one who is quivering with nerves. She claims that there is no reason to worry because she comes from a long line of sturdy peasant women who were back in the fields cutting hay half an hour after giving birth. No doubt she's right, but I'll be glad when the baby has arrived."
Lucien pulled the mechanical penguin from a drawer. "I made this as a christening gift. You can take it back to Wales with you now."
"What have you done this time?" Nicholas wound the key. When the penguin started doing backflips, Nicholas collapsed back in his chair, helpless with laughter. "What a strange and wonderful mind you have, Luce," he gasped when he could speak again. "Clare will love it. But what will you do to match this if we have other children?"
"Penguins can do other things. Swim. Slide on their bellies. Dance. We'll see when the time comes."
Nicholas reached for the penguin again. As he did, he saw the sketches of Jane that lay on the desk. He lifted one and studied it. "An interesting face. Full of character and intelligence. Are you love-smitten?"
"Absolutely not," Lucien said repressively. "That is merely a female who is more trouble than a sackful of cats."
His friend chuckled. "Sounds promising. When can we expect an interesting announcement?"
Lucien rolled his eyes. "Don't try to persuade me of the advantages of marriage. There is only one Clare, and you found her first. Since I refuse to settle for anything less in a woman, I am condemned to spend the rest of my years a bachelor. Your children can call me Uncle Lucien and talk behind my back about my eccentricity."
Nicholas, intuitive as a cat, must have heard the bleakness under the surface levity, for he gave Lucien a sharp glance. "Apropos of nothing," he said slowly, "Clare said that the reason the Fallen Angels became so close is that none of us had a real family, so we had to invent one."
It was truth so unexpected and accurate that it momentarily silenced Lucien. At length he said, " 'Apropos of nothing,' indeed. What is it like to live with a woman who sees too much?"
"Sometimes alarming." Nicholas grinned. "Mostly wonderful."
Lucien decided that it was time to change the subject before his envy became too visible. "Have you heard any interesting news from your Gypsy kinfolk?"
Nicholas's smile faded. "That's one reason I wanted to talk to you. A distant cousin with whom I traveled on the Continent recently sent a message to Aberdare. He says that there are persistent rumors that Napoleon intends to make a triumphant return from exile."
Nicholas had spent several years wandering through Europe with his Gypsy relatives. The Rom went everywhere and heard everything, and the information he had sent back to London had been invaluable. Hoping that this time his friend might be wrong, Lucien said, "One would expect such rumors about the Corsican. He's a living legend."
"True, but this goes beyond what might be expected," Nicholas replied. "My cousin said that agents of the emperor have been moving secretly through France, testing the temper of the people, and have concluded that the majority would support the emperor again. He has also heard whispers that there are powerful men among the Allies—British, Prussian, and Austrian—who would help because they want Napoleon to return. Apparently they found war to be a profitable business."
"Jackals," Lucien said with barely suppressed violence. The fighting might have ended, but he should have remembered that greed and violence were eternal. It was time to stop thinking about an elusive lady and concentrate on his real work. "Likely the rumors are no more than speculation and idle talk, but one can't take chances. I'll make inquiries. I'll also send word to my counterparts in Prussia and Austria. If there is a plan afoot to restore the emperor, perhaps it can be nipped in the bud."
"I hope so," Nicholas said gravely. "I surely do hope so."
* * *
The night was darkly overcast, but dry, perfect for criminal activity. Dressed entirely in black men's clothing and supplied with thin, strong rope and a grappling hook, Kit launched her career as a burglar at the town house of Lord Nunfield. The sardonic, amoral nobleman was one of her prime suspects.
The house next to his was temporarily vacant, so she was able to scale it without fear of being heard. From there it was simple to cross to the roof of Nunfield's house.
Lights in the basement indicated that the servants were spending a quiet evening in their own sitting room. The upper house was dark. After securing her rope around a chimney, Kit looped the line around her body and lowered herself to the level of a back window. It was strenuous work, even for a woman who had always been athletic to a most unladylike degree.
Luckily, the window she had chosen was fastened with a simple latch she could open with a knife. She paused to catch her breath inside, for she was panting heavily, as much from nerves as from exertion. This time if she was caught, there would be no way she could explain away her presence.
When her pulse steadied, she set to work. She had become adept at searching, and she was able to go through the upper floors of Lord Nunfield's modest dwelling very quickly. Though she paid particular attention to the master's bedchamber, she checked every room.
It all went flawlessly. Unfortunately, sh
e found nothing of interest. By the time she leaned out the window and caught her dangling rope, she was inclined to think that Nunfield was not her man. Her next sortie would be to the town house of Lord Mace.
As she scrambled up onto the roof, she told herself that the evening had been successful in one respect: this time she hadn't been caught by the alarming Lord Strathmore.
For that, at least, she could be grateful.
* * *
Rafe's proposal to make a speedy settlement with the United States brought a surprisingly large number of peers to the House of Lords. The issue produced a brisk and occasionally virulent debate. Rafe himself was eloquent in promoting his resolution, and Lucien and Nicholas also gave brief speeches of support.
Debate continued until past midnight. When the matter was put to the vote, Rafe waited stone-faced, as if indifferent to the result. Lucien sat on his friend's right and kept a running tally of the results. It was going to be close, very close, and the chamber was silent with tension.
The resolution carried by a single vote. As a babble of voices rose, Rafe permitted himself a jubilant smile. "A good thing you came, Nicholas."
"Let's hope the resolution does some good." Nicholas clapped Rafe on the shoulder. "Well done. I was afraid that the crush-the-colonials crowd would win."
Rafe turned to Lucien. "Care to come to my house to celebrate? Perhaps we can do a little plotting about other kinds of pressure that might be brought to bear on the government."
"I'll join you later." Lucien scanned the crowded chamber. "There are some people I want to say hello to."
Lucien had not been surprised to see that Mace and Nunfield had attended, nor that they voted against the measure. He made his way through the crowd of peers to them.
Mace raised his brows when Lucien joined them. "You really favor surrendering to that rabble of Americans?"
"The issue is not surrender but compromise," Lucien said as they stepped to one side of the stream of men exiting from the chamber. "I see no point in continuing a useless war."
"It sounds as if you have dangerously liberal tendencies," Nunfield said with mock horror. "You probably read radicals like Leigh Hunt and L. J. Knight and agree with them."
"Sometimes I do." Lucien gestured at the crowd. "Peace shouldn't be a radical issue. Most people here have relatives on the other side of the Atlantic. I do myself. We should be making the Americans our friends, not burning their capital."
"It's true that they gave us tobacco, and for that we owe them something. Speaking of tobacco..." Mace produced a gilt snuffbox and opened it with an elegant flip of his left hand. After inhaling a pinch, he gave a sigh of pleasure. "Delightful. Almost as pleasing as nitrous oxide. Have you ever tried that?"
Though Mace's expression was casual, there was a note in his voice that made Lucien realize that the question was significant. "No, but I've heard of it, of course. I understand that inhaling the gas produces an effect like intoxication, only without the headache the next day."
"It's even better," Mace assured him. "Unlike alcohol, which often makes one morose, nitrous puts a man quite in charity with the world. That's why it's sometimes called laughing gas. I have a chemist who makes nitrous for me, and occasionally I invite a few friends over to enjoy it with me. In fact, I'm doing so tomorrow night. Care to join us?"
"I'd love to," Lucien replied, not entirely truthfully. "It's one of those things I've always wanted to try."
"Until tomorrow, then." Mace nodded and went on his way.
As Lucien went in search of Rafe and Nicholas, he permitted himself an inward smile of satisfaction. Nitrous oxide had a reputation for loosening tongues and inhibitions, so he might learn some interesting things from other guests at the party. By the same token, he would have to make sure that Mace didn't learn anything from him. A good thing that Lucien was experienced at keeping his own counsel.
Chapter 8
Lucien deliberately went late to Lord Mace's nitrous oxide party. It was only two blocks from Strathmore House to Mace's home, so he walked. Since the weather was unseasonably cold, more like January than November, he had the streets to himself.
The draperies were drawn at Mace's, making the house so dark that it appeared unoccupied. However, an impassive butler answered Lucien's knock promptly, took his cloak, and guided him to the drawing room. The dim lamps illuminated about a dozen people, mostly male but including several women. What distinguished it from other social gatherings was the rapturous smiles and the large leather bladders all of the guests held and periodically inhaled from. Footmen moved about quietly, bringing new containers when guests signaled for replacements.
Lucien scanned the room, looking for his host. Several guests were talking and laughing together, though there was a disoriented quality to their conversation. Others, perhaps more intoxicated, had turned inward to trancelike states, more interested in their own sensations than their surroundings.
Lord Nunfield lounged in a corner chair, alternating sips of wine with inhalations from his gas bag. Closer to hand, Lord Chiswick sat on the floor with a giggling woman sprawled across his lap. He raised his deflated bag and waved it at a footman. " 'S empty," he said querulously. "Need more."
The servant silently brought another bulging bladder and exchanged it for the empty one. After sucking greedily at the pipe stem, Chiswick's expression dissolved into a beatific smile.
Mace's cool voice said, "Glad you made it, Strathmore."
"Thank you for the invitation."
Lucien turned and found that his host had a flushed face and pupils dilated so widely his eyes appeared black. If nitrous oxide caused that, it explained the low light level.
"You'll have to work hard to catch up with the others," Mace said. "Come in here where it's quieter."
He led the way into an adjoining reception room, and the two men settled into a pair of leather-covered chairs. A servant promptly brought over two of the leather bladders.
Lucien examined his, guessing that it held a volume of about a gallon. "How is the gas produced?"
"By heating some substance—ammonium nitrate, I think," Mace explained. "I won't let the chemist make it here, of course, because sometimes the stuff explodes. Go ahead, try some."
Lucien adjusted the pipe stem, then began inhaling the gas, hoping that it wouldn't rot his brain. After emptying the bladder, he said, "It's relaxing, but nothing more."
Mace took away the original gas bag and handed his guest a new one. "It takes several minutes to feel the full effect."
Midway through the second bladder, Lucien began to feel light-headed, though not unpleasantly so. He inhaled again and vibrant tingling pulsed through his body, dancing along his veins and thrumming in his extremities. Colors seemed brighter, and he felt exhilarated, intensely alive. "Interesting. I'm beginning to understand why you like this."
"It gets even better," Mace said as he signaled for more. "If nitrous was easier to obtain, drink would go out of fashion."
Lucien laughed, for the comment seemed very humorous. He hadn't felt so carefree since he was a boy.
Mace lifted a notebook and pencil from the table beside him. "Describe the sensations you're feeling. My chemist is compiling data on how different people react to nitrous."
"It's like... being music." Lucien groped to explain the unexplainable. "A friend once took me to Westminster Abbey to hear Handel's Messiah. The building resonated with the sounds of hundreds of instruments and singers. This is rather like that."
"Are your ears ringing?"
Lucien considered. "Yes, pounding in rhythm with my heartbeat."
Mace continued to ask questions, though sometimes Lucien lost track of them. Time blurred as one container of gas after another was placed in his hands. He noticed that Mace was inhaling the nitrous at a much slower pace. Though it was obvious that the other man wanted him intoxicated, it didn't seem worth worrying about. Once or twice Lucien tried to collect his scattered wits, but he couldn't quite remember why he
should try. He took things too seriously—all his friends said as much—so he should seize this opportunity to relax and enjoy himself.
A small corner of his mind stood aside, watching, but it had no power to act. It simply observed.
After a number of questions about reactions to the gas, Mace casually asked, "Why do you want to join the Hellions Club, Strathmore? I'd like the truth this time."
"I want to know... to know..." Lucien's mind temporarily went blank, and he could not remember what it was that he was determined to learn. In the seconds while he searched for the answer, he recognized the hard glint in his host's eyes. Mace had been waiting for this moment.
It was not unexpected. What shocked Lucien was that, in spite of years of practice at keeping secrets, he wanted to blurt out the truth. The normal walls of judgment and inhibition had vanished, and his tongue was ready to say that he was looking for a spy and intended to destroy the man when he found him.
The part of his mind that stood to one side said coolly that if he gave that answer and Mace was the spy, there was an excellent chance that Lucien would not survive the night. An accidental death would be easy to arrange. A slip on the icy cobblestones—an assault by unknown robbers—and he would be gone. Society would be shocked and regretful, for a day or two.
Struggling to avoid giving an answer, Lucien mumbled, "Sorry—the ringing is getting worse. Makes it hard to hear properly."
Mace sharpened his voice. "Tell me what you want to learn."
"I want to learn..." Grimly Lucien tried to focus his fragmented mind, to connect with that small part of himself that still had clarity. He rubbed his hand into his forehead and couldn't feel the pressure of his own fingers. Think, dammit!
He doubted that he could lie, even to save his life, but with a wash of relief he saw that he could offer lesser truths. "I wanted to learn... more about you and the others. Sometimes I get... very tired of myself. Too serious. I envy those who can live for pleasure, because I don't know how." And those were things he had never seen in himself, he realized with mild wonder.
Dancing on the Wind: Book 3 in The Fallen Angel Series Page 7