Dancing on the Wind: Book 3 in The Fallen Angel Series

by Mary Jo Putney

  "We could search an estate by night, cutting back and forth in a pattern that would cover the whole property." He drew her closer, thinking how fine drawn and fragile she felt. It hurt to know that he could not protect her from what she feared most. Gravely he said, "It's asking a lot of you, kitten."

  "I'll do whatever I must," she said, stark shadows under her eyes. "But once we find her, how will we get her out? I think she is guarded heavily."

  "We will damned well go in and get her. Your cousin Jason will want to come, and he strikes me as an exceedingly capable gentleman. I'll also summon the most dangerous of my friends. With men like them, we could get Kira out of the Tower of London." He began massaging her back, wanting her to sleep away her exhaustion. "Try to relax, Kit. If it's humanly possible, we will get her back safely."

  "You're very comforting." She closed her eyes and turned her face into the hollow between his neck and shoulder. Soon soft, regular exhalations were wisping against his throat.

  He watched the shadow-splashed ceiling, his face somber. In spite of his show of confidence, he was deeply worried. There were too many possibilities, and, if the message from Kira was accurate, very little time. The kind of monster who had abducted her was quite capable of tiring of his plaything and killing her so that he could find a new woman to torment.

  So much depended on Kit's gossamer bond with her sister. It was a devastating burden for her to carry; if they failed to find Kira in time, Kit would never forgive herself. She would be doomed to the guilt and loneliness, the sense of being incomplete, that had haunted Lucien most of his life. He wouldn't wish that on anyone, much less Kit. And selfishly, he feared that if her sister died, Kit would never want to see Lucien again because he had failed to rescue Kira. The mere thought made his muscles cramp with tension.

  When he was sure she was asleep, he carefully disentangled himself from her arms, climbed from the bed, and went to his desk. There he penned a terse note. Michael, I need your help. Can you come to London immediately? Lucien.

  On the outside he wrote "Lord Michael Kenyon, Bryn Manor, Penreith, Caermarthenshire, Wales." Then he dripped wax on the closure and pressed in the Strathmore seal with his signet ring. First thing in the morning he would send the note by special messenger. If a military-style raid was needed, Michael would be invaluable. But first, they had to find where Kira was.

  As he slid into bed beside Kit again, he hoped to God that he could live up to her trust.

  * * *

  Lucien paused in the open doorway. "Good morning, Dolly. Your footman said to come straight up."

  The flamboyant blonde who frowned over an account book looked up, a smile wreathing her face. "Strathmore, what an unexpected pleasure. Have you come to add some spice to your bland life?"

  He grinned and closed the door behind him. "Now, now, remember our bargain. I don't call you a disgusting pervert, and you don't tell me that I'm an unimaginative puritan who would bore any reasonable woman senseless."

  She leaned back in her chair, laughing. "I've always liked the way you joke about my business. Most men either think I'm the wickedest creature since Eve, or they take me and my work so seriously they forget they're supposed to be having fun."

  "Do you have a few minutes to spare?"

  She waved airily. "I'm expecting a gentleman any minute, but he can wait. Frustration will help put him in the mood." She lifted an enormous ostrich feather fan from the desk, then stood and turned around, one hand on her hip. "It's a new outfit. What do you think—will I drive the lads all wild?"

  Lucien solemnly inspected her spectacular red velvet gown. She must be wearing a ferocious corset, for her somewhat overabundant figure was cleverly shaped to provide a maximum of stunning curves, some of which were displayed by a décolletage that would make a stone saint blush. As she turned, he saw that the skirt had thigh-high slits that revealed riding boots, silver spurs, and black lace stockings.

  "Isn't it a bit conservative?" he asked. "I saw a duchess in a similar outfit several weeks ago, but hers was more daring."

  "Beast!" She swatted at him with her fan. It stung across the back of his hand, and he saw that the frothy feathers concealed narrow leather thongs that would hurt if applied with vigor. The pretty and the painful blended together, a perfect metaphor for Dolly's special skills.

  "I'll admit that it isn't always easy to be more vulgar than some of your society ladies, but I'm the woman who can do it." She sat and crossed her legs so that the slit skirt exposed shapely, black lace-covered legs all the way to midthigh. "Take a seat. I don't suppose this is a social call."

  "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. Nunfield." 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 le
ather-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.

  Chapter 29

  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 Pall 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 in 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 fiancé, 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.

  Spontaneous applause burst out when her skirts lifted high enough to show the butterfly tattoo. He found himself torn between wanting to inflict grievous harm on every man in the audience who was lusting after her, and primiti
ve masculine pride in the knowledge that he was the only one who had ever kissed that teasing butterfly, the only one who knew the secrets of her body and the bright clarity of her spirit.

  He was also well on the way to becoming as mad as a March hare. Sanity was unlikely to return until Kit married him.

  At the end of her dance Kit sank into a graceful posture of subservience at the feet of the mortified Sir Digby. His wife and daughter stormed off stage, the daughter dragging her reluctant fiancé. The outraged guests followed, leaving Sir Digby alone with his fraudulent mistress. Kit bounced to her feet, blew Sir Digby an airy kiss, and skipped away, leaving the poor public servant alone amidst the ruins of his life.

  The act ended to thunderous applause. Lord Chiswick said with an unusual show of enthusiasm, "What a delicious actress."

  "Indeed," Sir James said. "Does anyone know her name?"

  "Cassie James." Nunfield inhaled some snuff, then proffered the box to Mace, who took a pinch. "I offered the girl a carte blanche once, but she turned me down, alas. Perhaps I shall try again with more generous terms." His gaze slid to Lucien. "Of course, she may have a protector already." The ironic amusement in his eyes showed that he had heard how Lucien had swept Kit from the green room, but there was no jealousy in his expression. Was his tolerance real or feigned? Impossible to tell.

  Mace drawled, "I've had my fill of actresses. A greedy, self-obsessed lot. I prefer bored wives myself. They're much less expensive, and so grateful for the attention." He got to his feet. "I think I'll stretch my legs before the next act."

  The other men also decided to go for refreshments or to visit people in other boxes, leaving Lucien alone to ponder what he had observed. He was about to go downstairs himself when a sixth sense made him look up as Kit entered his box. She wore a dark mantle with a hood drawn over her hair and looked chaste and modest, like a medieval nun.

  For a moment they simply gazed at each other. Then they were in each other's arms. Her body was warm and pliant from her exertions, her kiss as hungry as his own. They embraced for a few mindless moments until she turned her head with a rueful laugh. "Actually, I came to find if you had learned anything."