Dancing on the Wind fa-3

by Mary Jo Putney

  Dancing on the Wind

  ( Fallen Angels - 3 )

  Mary Jo Putney

  A tragic past has driven Lord Strathmore to use his formidable talents to protect his country from secret enemies, and he does it superlatively well - until he meets a mysterious woman. By turns glamorous and subdued, reckless yet vulnerable, she baffles his mind even as she captures his heart.

  Mary Jo Putney

  Dancing on the Wind

  To my widely scattered writing buddies, for comfort, laughter, and commiseration. You know who you are.

  Prologue

  Eton, Winter 1794

  After the funerals he was sent back to school. What else could be done with a boy, even one who had just become the wealthiest child in Great Britain?

  The brand-new Earl of Strathmore, Lucien Fairchild, was desperately anxious to return to Eton. There, with his friends, he could try to pretend that nothing had changed; that when he went back to Ashdown at the end of the term, he would find his father and mother and sister still alive and well.

  He knew better, of course, but he was not yet ready to accept the finality of death. Perhaps when he turned twelve, it would be easier.

  His former title had been Viscount Maldon. The Eton headmaster who greeted his carriage was quick to call him Strathmore, as were the school servants who took charge of his baggage, but behind his back, twice he heard voices murmur, "The orphan earl." Lucien cringed when he heard the phrase. It sounded unbearably pathetic. He resented his cane for the same reason, but at least that would be gone in a few weeks.

  It was midevening when he arrived at the boarding house where he was lodged. As soon as he had shed his coat and gloves in his room, he went in search of his particular friends, all of whom lived in the same house. As usual, they had gathered in Rafe's chamber, which was the largest and the warmest.

  Lucien limped into the room without bothering to knock. His three friends were sprawled in various positions across the furniture. Nicholas was a viscount, Rafe a marquess, and Michael the younger son of a duke, but those titles were mere courtesy, while Lucien was now a peer of the realm. He wished to God that it wasn't so.

  When the door swung open, they all looked up. There was a moment of ghastly silence. They had heard the news, of course.

  Lucien's heart sank. Brittle with grief and a primal loneliness that he knew would be with him for the rest of his life, he needed desperately for his friends to be the same. He didn't think he would be able to bear it if they were too embarrassed to treat him as they always had.

  Then Nicholas set aside his book and uncoiled from his spot in front of the fire. His Gypsy blood made him more demonstrative than the others, and it was entirely natural for him to drape an arm around Lucien's shoulders and guide him to the fire. "Glad you're back," he said easily. "You're just in time for toasted cheese."

  Lucien was deeply grateful for his friend's casual gesture. It made him feel real again. In the last fortnight he had sometimes wondered if he was as much a ghost as his family.

  As he folded down onto the rug in front of the fire, the other boys set their books aside. Then they toasted chunks of cheese on long forks. The oozing, savory results were smeared across slabs of bread, a perfect supper for a cold, damp night.

  Conversation was casual, mostly school news that had taken place in Lucien's absence. It wasn't necessary for him to talk at all, which was fortunate, because he wasn't sure if he would have been able to speak past the lump in his throat. In time, as the tight knot in his chest began to ease, he was able to contribute an occasional comment. He also found, with mild wonder, that he was hungry for the first time since the accident.

  When the cheese was gone, Rafe said, "I found something in town that I thought you might like for your collection, Luce." He got up and rooted around in his desk, then came back and handed over a small object.

  It was a windup mechanical tortoise with a miniature bronze mermaid perched on top of the shell. Even his corrosive grief could not prevent Lucien from being intrigued. "It's a real turtle shell, isn't it?" He turned the device over in his hands, studying the fine workmanship, then wound the spring and set it on the floor.

  Ponderously the turtle lurched forward. Though it rolled on tiny hidden wheels, the head and legs moved as if it really walked. On its back, the coy mermaid waved her arm back and forth, throwing flirtatious kisses to the watching boys.

  Lucien smiled for a moment before reality crashed down on him again. It was his father who had given him his first mechanical toy, and encouraged him to collect and build them. His father, who now lay in the family crypt at Ashdown, his laughter forever silent. Lucien blinked back the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes. If only there really was a fairy land of mermaids and magic where no one ever died.

  When he had mastered himself, he said, "Are you sure you want to give this away, Rafe? I've never seen one like it."

  Rafe shrugged. "Any time I want to see it, I'll know where to go."

  The turtle ground to a stop, so Lucien wound the spring and set it off again. Finally able to make an oblique reference to what had happened, he said in a low voice, "They're calling me the Orphan Earl."

  There was a revolted silence before Michael said, "A beastly nickname. Makes you sound like a beggar boy."

  The others nodded agreement. Lucien had known that they would understand.

  "We need to find a better nickname before that one sticks," Rafe said firmly. "Luce, how would you like to be known?"

  Nicholas chuckled. "How about the Serpent of Strathmore? That sounds properly dangerous."

  Lucien considered. A serpent, sleek and deadly. Everyone feared serpents. Still… "Not bad, but not quite right."

  "I've got a better idea." Michael grinned and held up the book he had been studying. It was Milton's Paradise Lost. "Since your name is Lucien, Lucifer is a natural choice."

  "Perfect," Nicholas said enthusiastically. "Lucifer, the rebellious archangel who would rather reign in hell than serve in heaven. Blond as you are, you'd make a good morning star."

  "A dashing name," Rafe agreed. "Personally, I think Milton had a secret fondness for Lucifer. As a character he's far more interesting than God, who acts like a bullying headmaster."

  "If we all start referring to you as Lucifer, in a fortnight every boy at Eton will be doing the same." Michael's green eyes sparked with mischief. "The masters will say it's sacrilegious. They'll be furious."

  Lucien leaned back against the bed and closed his eyes as he considered. Nicknames were important; being called something stupid like Weezy at Eton could follow a man all his life. Lucifer was a good strong name-a being that could laugh at God would know better than to love too much. And surely a proud, dangerous fallen archangel would not weep at night.

  He tried on a cool, ironic expression. Yes, this would do very well. "All right," he said slowly. "I'll be Lucifer."

  Chapter 1

  London, October 1814

  Two days had passed, and the time for weeping was over. Now it was time for action.

  She had already asked the obvious questions of the appropriate people, and come up empty-handed. There was no evidence beyond her intuition that something dreadful had happened.

  Of course, in this instance her intuition was infallible.

  At least, thank God, the worst had not yet occurred. If she acted quickly, she might be able to prevent the ultimate disaster. But what could be done? There were no conventional sources of aid in such a situation, and while there were men whom she might ask for help, there were none she dared trust.

  She forced herself to stop her frantic pacing around the disordered room, which showed the effects of her futile searching. She was suppo
sed to be a clever woman, so it was time she acted like one.

  Seating herself at the desk, she cut a precise point on a quill pen, dipped it into the inkstand, and began to jot down what she knew. First came dates, times, and the answers of those people she had questioned. Then she wrote out her theory of what must have happened. It was supported mostly by half-remembered conversations, but it fit the facts, so she would proceed as if it were true. After all, she had no other theories.

  Ink dried on her quill while she pondered what to write next. The critical need was for information; if she could learn exactly what had occurred, she would be able to devise a solution.

  Though she was not without allies, the brunt of the investigation must fall on her. Not only were her skills uniquely valuable, but no one else, not even Jane, could possibly care as deeply.

  Slowly a course of action emerged, though her face tightened as she listed places to investigate and how she might go about doing so. Some of the necessary methods might prove dangerous, and she knew that she was not a brave woman. But she had no choice; passive waiting would be unbearable.

  The boldest idea was stunningly simple. As she wrote it down, she berated herself for not thinking of it immediately.

  Her pen began flying across the page as more thoughts tumbled out. Soon she had worked out everything she would need to become another person.

  Though perhaps it would be more accurate to say that she would become half a dozen different persons.

  Chapter 2

  "Stop right there, y'r bloody lordship!"

  He halted instantly. Lucien Fairchild, ninth Earl of Strathmore, secret head of Britain's loose-knit intelligence service by profession, and enigma by choice, knew murder when he heard it.

  Slowly he turned to face the man who had accosted him, cursing himself for having grown careless since the end of the war. He should have known better. Though the fighting had ended on the battlefields of Europe, the stealthy world of plots, politics, and power was eternal.

  He had been walking home from his club and it was late, past midnight. Dry leaves skimmed across the cobblestones, and a block away carriages rumbled through Hanover square, but Lucien was alone in the shadowy street with one-no, two-dark, hulking figures. The faint starlight reflected dully from the long barrels of the two pistols aimed at his heart.

  Play for time. Find out who you're facing, and why. "Are we acquainted, sir?" Lucien asked politely.

  "Not personal-like, but they say you've been looking for Harry Mirkin for nigh onto two years, so I decided it was time I introduced myself." The man gave a derisive snort. "I'm disappointed. They say you're called Lucifer because you're a dangerous devil, but you're just a whey-faced dandy, too pretty to scare a ten-year-old pickpocket in the East End."

  "Sorry I don't meet your expectations. Reputations are often distorted." Lucien gestured at Mirkin with his ivory-headed cane. "For instance, rumor painted you as king of the London underworld. It was said that the French paid you to assassinate the Tory leaders, hoping that the government would collapse and Britain would withdraw from the war. Did rumor speak truly?"

  "Aye, that's true," Mirkin said viciously. "And I would've succeeded if it hadn't been for you and your weasel informers. Failure cost me most of my gang, my position in the underworld, and the five thousand gold guineas I would have been paid if I had been successful. I was lucky to escape with my life."

  "A good fee for a job, but a poor price for betraying your country," Lucien murmured. "I have wanted to find you, though I can't say that I looked very hard. I've had more important things to do."

  "The more fool you for not thinking me important!"

  "Obviously I underrated you." Lucien toyed with his cane, surreptitiously loosening the head. "You did a good job of vanishing. What sewer were you hiding in?"

  His opponent spat on the sidewalk. "I was in stinkin' Dublin, and it's all your fault. I've come back to take what's mine, and I'm going to start by killing Lord Lucifer, who sticks his nose into things that are none of his concern."

  "I'm sure it will do wonders for your reputation when it becomes known that you needed help to kill an unarmed man," Lucien said dryly.

  Mirkin waved toward his brawny associate, who stood within six feet of Lucien. "My brother Jimmy here won't give me away. All anyone will know is that you're dead and it's my doing." His voice turned venomous. "Beg for your life, Strathmore. I want you to crawl like the snake you are."

  As he tensed for action, Lucien said evenly, "Whatever you say, Harry. Do you want me on my knees?"

  There was a brief, predatory flash of teeth. "I'd like that. Grovel well and I may kill you quickly. Otherwise, it will be two bullets in your belly and you'll be weeks a'dying."

  Mirkin's pistol lowered slightly as he waited for his enemy's humiliation. And while his guard was down, Lucien dived low and fast into Jimmy. The maneuver was a risk, but with luck he would ruin Jimmy's aim while making Mirkin hold his fire for fear of hitting his brother.

  Lucien won the gamble, though only just; as the big man pitched forward onto his assailant, his pistol fired. The ball blasted by Lucien's head and powder grains scorched his cheek.

  Ignoring the deafening explosion, Lucien flipped onto his back and yanked the head from his cane, exposing a glittering, razor-edged sword stick. Then he braced the sword stick with both hands so that it pointed straight up at the man falling toward him.

  An instant later, Jimmy impaled himself on the blade with an impact that made Lucien's whole frame vibrate. The gunman gave a brief, hair-raising shriek that ended as quickly as it began. Then the full weight of the corpse smashed into Lucien, pinning him to the ground.

  Before he could free himself, Mirkin roared, "You bloody, murdering bastard!" He reversed his pistol and slammed the butt into Lucien's head, then drew his arm back to do it again. "For that, I'm going to kill you by inches."

  Pain exploded through Lucien's skull. Holding onto the consciousness with grim determination, he snapped, "If you succeed, at least you'll have earned my death honestly."

  When Mirkin drew his foot back for a kick, Lucien heaved Jimmy's massive body off himself and into his opponent's legs, then lurched to his feet. He spent precious seconds trying to wrench his sword stick free, but it was lodged too firmly in Jimmy's chest. He would have to face Mirkin unarmed.

  "You're a tricky bastard, aren't you?" Mirkin raised his pistol. "I'm going to shoot you like I shoulda done in the beginning."

  Before he could fire, Lucien lashed out with one foot and kicked the gun from the other man's hand. It flew through the darkness and landed with a metallic clatter.

  "By God, if I can't shoot you, I'll rip your head off with my bare hands, you filthy swine!" Mirkin bellowed as he hurled himself forward in a charge that knocked both men to the ground.

  Lucien struggled to escape the lethal embrace, but Mirkin had started his criminal career as a thief on the London docks, and he still had a stevedore's size and brute power. He pinned Lucien to the cobblestones, then locked his hands around Lucien's throat and squeezed with all his might, cutting off air and threatening to crush the windpipe.

  As his vision darkened, Lucien heaved himself upward to unbalance his attacker, then jerked his knee toward Mirkin's groin. The other man's instinctive recoil gave Lucien the chance to break away. Cat-quick, he leaped to his feet and caught his enemy's head from behind. With one savage twist, he broke Mirkin's neck.

  After the hideous snap, all was silent save for Lucien's ragged breathing. He let Mirkin's limp body crumple to the ground, then stepped back and wiped the sweat from his forehead with one wrist. "In a way you did me a favor, Harry," he panted. "I dislike coldblooded killing, but for self-defense, I feel no remorse at all."

  Men were starting to come from the nearby houses, drawn by the sound of Jimmy's shot. It must have been no more than three or four minutes since Mirkin and his brother had accosted him.

  Long enough to kill two men.

  Half a
dozen neighbors arrived bearing lanterns. One, an acquaintance of Lucien's named Winterby, exclaimed, "My God, Strathmore's been injured. Send for a physician!"

  Lucien looked down and saw that his fawn-colored cloak was saturated with crimson. "No need-the blood isn't mine."

  "What happened?"

  "Two footpads attacked me." Lucien bent and picked up his hat. Now that the crisis was over, he was shaking with reaction. It had been a near thing, a very near thing.

  "Shocking that a man ain't safe even in Mayfair," someone said indignantly.

  A thin man who had knelt and examined the bodies gave Lucien a strange look. "They're both dead."

  "Fortunately, I had my sword stick." Lucien retrieved the two sections of his cane. After wiping the blade clean on his ruined cloak, he screwed the handle back onto the base.

  The thin man glanced down at Mirkin, whose eyes stared glassily and whose neck was bent at a strange, impossible angle. "Very fortunate," he said dryly.

  Another voice murmured, "No wonder they call him Lucifer."

  Raising his voice to cover the comment, Winterby said, "Come into my house for a brandy while the magistrate is summoned."

  "Thank you, but since I live just ahead in the square, I'd rather go home. The magistrate can interview me there."

  He took a last look at the bodies of the two men who had tried to kill him. What a strange life he lived, where forgotten business from the past might surface and destroy him at any moment. If Mirkin hadn't felt the need to explain himself, Lucien would be the one lying on the cold stones.

  Wearily he turned toward Hanover Square, accompanied by one of Winterby's footmen carrying a lantern. The attack was a forcible reminder that it was time to address some unfinished business. Harry Mirkin had been only an instrument in the hands of another, more powerful figure, an agent of Napoleon who had worked against Britain for years. Mentally, Lucien had dubbed him the Phantom, for he had been as elusive as a ghost, always staying in the background while he worked his mischief.