It had been a pleasure to see her without wigs and cosmetics. Finally, he had an authentic face to visualize. He liked her softly waving hair, and her unpainted complexion had the delicate translucence of pearl. Most of all, he liked the intelligence and individuality that radiated from her now that she was no longer in disguise. He drifted off to sleep thinking of clear gray eyes and the soft warmth of her slim body.
The nitrous oxide left a parting gift: a restless night full of lurid dreams. The first was of passion with Jane, who was a dozen women in one while always gloriously herself. Yet after matchless fulfillment, she began to dissolve in his arms. He tried to hold her, but she vanished into the shadows, leaving him alone with a soul-destroying sorrow.
He awoke at dawn drenched with sweat. The images were already fading away, leaving only a haunting sense of loss. Perhaps the dreams were a warning to avoid Jane in the future. The more he wanted her, the more it would hurt if emotional intimacy proved unattainable. It was no accident that he had led a life of near-celibacy for years, and surely it would be wiser for him to continue on his solitary way.
His mouth thinned. It was too late to turn back-whatever the cost, he must continue his pursuit, for Jane had taken possession of his mind and imagination as no woman ever had. He would take his chances.
As he rang for tea, he told himself dryly that if there was a message in his dreams, it was to keep away from nitrous oxide. The brief euphoria had come at an exhausting price.
Lucien's ankle had improved overnight. After a thorough soak and expert bandaging by his valet, he could walk well enough to go out. As a concession to his injury, he rode in a closed carriage rather than driving himself.
Inevitably, his destination was Wardour Street. It was in Soho, an area known for artists, writers, eccentrics, and foreigners, just the sort of place where one would expect to find an independent woman such as Jane.
As he climbed from his carriage, cane in hand, anticipation bubbled inside him like champagne. He hoped she was in; if so, he would ask her out for a drive. It would be a pleasure to see her in daylight instead of the dead of night. Their relationship to date couldn't have been more nocturnal if they had been bats.
He grinned when he saw that the other side of the street boasted a tavern called the Intrepid Fox. It seemed appropriate, though Jane would more properly be called an intrepid vixen.
His anticipation began to fade when he studied number 96. It appeared to belong to a single household rather than being divided into flats. Still, appearances could be misleading. He gave a sharp rap with the brass knocker.
A trim parlor maid answered the door, her eyes widening as she saw the elegant gentleman on the steps. Using his most ingratiating smile, he said, "My cousin asked me to pay a call on her friend Jane at this address, but I'm afraid that I don't remember the young lady's last name. Is Miss Jane in?"
"Oh, there are no young ladies living here, sir." The parlor maid giggled. "Except me, of course, but I'm a Molly, not a Jane. Are you sure you have the right address?"
Cold rage washed through him, and his hand tightened on the cane. The devious little witch had made a fool of him again. He stood very still until he had mastered himself enough to say evenly, "Very likely I made a mistake. Perhaps number 69 is the house I want. If not, I shall write my cousin and ask for clarification."
With a polite tip of his hat, he turned and limped back to his carriage. Bloody hell, how could he have been so stupid as to believe she had told the truth? He'd like to blame the nitrous oxide for his misjudgment, but the real intoxicant was Jane, or whatever her name was, the only woman he had ever met who could turn his brain to rubble.
As he climbed into the carriage, he ordered his coachman, "Head for Westminster Bridge. I want to go to Surrey Gaol."
Leigh Hunt glanced absently up from his desk when the cell door creaked open. Recognizing his visitor, he stood with a pleased smile. "Strathmore, good of you to call."
The two men shook hands. Having visited the editor before, Lucien was not surprised by the rose-trellised wallpaper that brightened the stone walls, nor by the blue sky and clouds painted on the ceiling. Leigh Hunt was not the man to let a small thing like incarceration spoil his enjoyment of life.
A guard entered with a large vase of flowers. "I saw a vendor with these and thought you might enjoy them," Lucien explained as the guard set the vase on top of the pianoforte.
"Thank you." The editor stroked the bright petals of a chrysanthemum. "They are splendid for so late in the year."
"You're due to be released soon, aren't you?"
"February." Leigh Hunt grimaced. "And counting the days. I've made this cell as comfortable as possible, but when all is said and done, it's still a prison." He waved toward a chair. "Please, sit down and tell me what's happening in town."
"Since you are editing the Examiner from this cell, you probably know more than I do. Still, you may not have heard…" Lucien recounted several anecdotes his host would enjoy.
Gradually Lucien worked the conversation to the subject that had brought him to the jail. "By the way, I heard a rumor that one of your writers, L. J. Knight, is really a woman."
Leigh Hunt laughed heartily. "What utter nonsense!"
"I thought the story seemed unlikely," Lucien agreed. "What is Knight really like? From his idealism, I assume he's young."
"I really don't know. I've never met him in person; we deal through the post."
Interesting. Lucien asked, "Knight lives in the country?"
"No, he's a Londoner."
"So it is possible that Knight could be a female who uses a nom de plume to conceal her sex."
The editor shook his head. "Theoretically possible, perhaps, but no woman could write such powerful, well-reasoned essays."
If Leigh Hunt had ever met a female like Jane, he might be less sure of that. Of course she might have lied about being L. J. Knight, but Lucien was inclined to believe her; her zeal and knowledge of public affairs had been convincing. "Do you think Knight would mind if I called on him? I'd like to shake his hand. I don't always agree with his opinions, but he has an insightful mind. It's a pleasure to read his essays."
Leigh Hunt frowned. "I doubt if he would welcome visitors. I believe his health is poor, so he lives very retired."
Lucien gave a small nod. To be an invalid was the perfect disguise for an unconventional woman, and exactly the sort of cleverness he would expect of Jane.
"I wouldn't want to overtax the fellow's strength," he said piously, "but I have a proposal for him. The war is over and it's time for Britain to look ahead. I'd like to publish a pamphlet about my economic and social ideas. However, I'm an indifferent writer so I need to hire someone to present my views effectively. If you can give me Knight's address, I'll send a note and ask if he would consider the project. If he's not interested, I shan't disturb him."
The editor hesitated. "Knight has always refused to allow me to call. Still, it's a rare scribbler who isn't interested in more work, especially with a gentleman as generous as you. His address is 20 Frith Street."
Soho again. Lucien did not think it was a coincidence. Since Jane had also come up with a Soho address when he had pressed her, there was a good chance that she lived in the area. That narrowed his search down to manageable proportions. He steered the conversation to other subjects, and after a few more minutes he took his leave.
On the ride back to London, he weighed what he had learned. In his work he had met many kinds of liars, including those who told falsehoods for sport, and those who could not tell illusion from reality. Jane was not like that; her lies were told for a purpose. He supposed he couldn't blame her for lying about where she lived since he had been pressing her to reveal what she preferred to conceal. But though his anger lessened, his determination to find her did not.
It was late, so the visit to Frith Street must wait until the next day. He wondered what he would find there; devious Jane probably had her mail sent someplace other than
her home. But the address might lead to something else.
Since nothing more could be done about her for the time being, he turned his thoughts to the Phantom. A French spy was more important than finding one maddening young lady.
His head knew that, but his heart didn't.
Wearing a drab cloak and a deep poke bonnet that shadowed her face, Kit entered the greengrocer's shop. The owner, a stout, middle-aged woman with a pleasant face, was busy with an elderly customer, but she gave Kit a quick smile of welcome.
Kit busied herself inspecting the produce until the other customer was gone. Then she said, "Good morning, Mrs. Henley."
"It's good to see you again, miss. It's been too long," the other woman said affably. "What's your pleasure today?"
"A dozen leeks, please, and two pounds of those fresh Brussels sprouts." As Mrs. Henley selected the vegetables, Kit murmured, "Someone might come by and ask about L. J. Knight. Probably a very charming, very persuasive gentleman."
Mrs. Henley said, "Don't worry, lass, he'll learn nothing from me."
"The less you say, the better, for he's a clever fellow."
Another customer came into the shop, so Mrs. Henley said in a louder voice, "Would you like some of these oranges, miss? They're a bit dear, but ever so sweet."
"They do look good," Kit agreed. "I'll take six."
When the oranges had been added to her basket, she handed over the money for her purchases. Concealed among the smaller coins was a gold guinea. Softly she said, "This is to cover the cost of forwarding the mail. I don't want to collect it in person for the time being."
Mrs. Henley gave a conspiratorial smile as she pocketed the money. Then she turned to her new customer.
Soberly, Kit left the shop. She should never have told Lucien-she gave herself a mental shake and changed the name to Strathmore-so much. Granted, not all of it was true, but she didn't think it would take him long to separate the wheat from the chaff. He might be questioning Leigh Hunt right now, which would lead him straight to Mrs. Henley's shop.
He would also, she feared, be furious at her deception. It was ironic that she, who had always had a passion for the truth, was now telling so many different lies that it was hard to keep them all straight. That she had no choice did not make her feel much better.
With a sigh she set aside her concerns about Strathmore. It was time to start worrying about what she would be doing that night. It wouldn't do to get her anxieties mixed up.
Lucien was not surprised to find that number 20 Frith Street was a combination greengrocer's shop and postal receiving office. With a steady stream of mostly female customers coming and going all day, it would be easy for Jane to collect her letters unobtrusively.
When the customers realized that a man-not only that, but one of obvious wealth and position-had entered the shop, they began exchanging nervous glances. One by one, they hastened to complete their business and leave, though not without studying the intruder. He stood calmly, his hands folded on the head of his cane, but he found it secretly amusing that he could clear a shop by his mere presence.
When the other customers had left, the shopkeeper turned to him, showing no surprise at the sight of a fashionable gentleman among the baskets of turnips and potatoes. Very likely Jane had warned her that Lucien might come looking for L. J. Knight. "What can I do for you, sir?" the woman asked. "Some nice oranges, perhaps?"
To his regret, she did not look easily bribable. Any information he got would have to come by misdirection. "I'm looking for my uncle. He's a delightful old fellow, but not as steady as one would like. Periodically he runs away from home. I've heard that this time he has taken a flat in Soho and is having his mail sent to this address. His name is L. J. Knight. Does he collect his letters here?"
She looked startled, as if she had been expecting a different question. "Your uncle's name sounds familiar, but I can't put a face to him."
Lucien gave the woman a disarming smile. "May I be candid with you? We're afraid that this time the old boy has run off with an adventuress. Perhaps she is collecting his mail. Is this woman familiar?" He drew a sketch he had done of Jane from an inside pocket.
If he hadn't been watching the shopkeeper so closely,he would have missed the slight, involuntary widening of her eyes. Lucien was willing to swear it was recognition.
After a moment she said, "Perhaps I've seen her, but I can't say for sure. It's not a memorable face."
Lucien did not agree with that, but it was true that Jane had no single feature that was distinctive. It would take an exceptional artist to capture her uniqueness, and his talent was not equal to the task.
Handing back the sketch, the shopkeeper remarked, "She doesn't look like an adventuress."
"That is what makes the woman so dangerous. Though she looks like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, she has an alarming reputation. We fear she might injure Uncle James when she realizes that he has no money in his own right."
A spark of amusement showed in the shopkeeper's eyes as she recognized that Lucien was spinning tales. "If the girl becomes difficult, no doubt your uncle will come home."
"I hope so. He has not always shown good judgment where females are concerned." Lucien wondered wryly if he was talking about his mythical uncle or about himself.
After thanking the shopkeeper for answering his questions, he left. He could have a watch set on the shop, but doubted it would do much good. Jane was too clever to come in person now that Lucien knew about the place.
It would be more productive to have one of his inquiry agents ask for her around Soho, armed with the sketch. Though slow, such work often yielded results. In time he would find her.
But what would he do with her when he did?
Interlude
When she heard him enter the anteroom, she drained her tea and very carefully set down the cup. Then she stood and shook out the black hair that fell straight as a waterfall to her waist. Tonight she wore a black lace costume that fitted her like a second skin from deep decolletage to thigh-high boots. The open patterns of the lace teased the eye, pretending to reveal more of her body than they actually did.
Her lips tightened when she heard the small whirring sound from the next room. Grasping a whip, she swaggered out with the arrogance of a cavalryman. "Touch nothing without my permission, slave," she snarled as she slashed at his wrist
Though it was the softest of the whips, the lash still raised a welt. He flinched and set down the mechanical device, but his eyes were glowing as he dropped to his knees. "I humbly beg your pardon, mistress."
She kicked him in the face, a glancing blow that avoided his eye and would leave only a slight mark. "I do not accept your apology, slave. You must be punished. Strip off your clothing so that you are as naked as other beasts."
He obeyed, his hands clumsy with eagerness as he bared his strong, leathery body. Then he crouched on his hands and knees. She laid the whip across his spine with furious strength. He gasped and raised his head to stare at her, pupils dark.
She had gone too far, too soon. This was the most difficult part, holding back while she slowly raised the level of pain. If she proceeded too quickly, she would lose him, and a great deal more.
She cracked the whip again, more gently, and he relaxed with a rasping moan of pleasure. As carefully as an artist painting a portrait, she began flicking the lash all over his body, monitoring his degree of arousal with hawklike intensity.
She also cursed him, calling him every filthy name she knew, telling him what an utterly loathsome creature he was. Her diatribe added fuel to the flame of his excitement.
When the soft whip reached the limit of its effectiveness, she exchanged it for one with a harder thong that raised blood at every blow. He began to writhe under the rhythm of her whip, welcoming strokes that would have been too painful earlier. Finally, she was free to strike with the full viciousness of her rage. She slashed him again and again, violence possessing her until she was scarcely human. His mewling cries
became louder and louder, filling the room until his sweat-soaked body began shuddering with ecstasy.
Then it was over, and he lay sprawled on a sheepskin rug, his blood staining the white wool, his whole body Ump with repletion. "You are superb, mistress, " he panted. "Superb."
Choked with self-loathing, she spun on her heel and stalked from the room.
Chapter 11
Kit awoke shivering, her body drenched with sweat. It had been the most vivid nightmare yet, and it left her feeling nauseated. She tried to make sense of the images, but without success; the nightmare was so alien to her experience that it was like trying to understand Chinese. Only the emotions were recognizable: rage and anguish so intense that they threatened to drown her.
Viola rose from the foot of the bed and strolled up the blankets with a soft meow. Kit almost cried with relief when the cat gently butted her cheek in an unmistakable request for breakfast. The normalcy of the cat's plea helped Kit counter the torrent of misery that had engulfed her.
First she relaxed, muscle by muscle, until her shivering stopped. Then she filled her mind with positive emotions-peace, love, hope-until all of the wretchedness was washed away.
When calm had been restored, she climbed from the bed and drew on a robe against the chilly morning air. Then she draped Viola over her shoulder and headed to the kitchen, telling herself determinedly that she was making progress. She had gotten through the previous night without disgracing herself, and she had had the opportunity to study one of her suspects closely enough to eliminate him. Though that was negative information, it was another small step forward.
Dancing on the Wind fa-3 Page 10