Dancing on the Wind (14 page)

Trying not to think of the lean, hard length of his body, she headed toward the street. They must look like two drunks helping each other home. "If you hadn't interfered," she said acidly, "I would have been able to leave at my leisure and escape with my rope. Now I'll have to buy a new one."

"I'll buy you another." He considered. "Then again, maybe I won't. The last thing I want is to encourage you in your life of crime. Not that you need any encouragement. I'd wager that you didn't ask for directions to my house since you already found out where it is while planning your burgling schedule. Am I right?"

Since he was, she didn't dignify the remark with an answer.

At first he kept up a flow of nonsensical chatter, but soon he fell silent, his breath becoming more labored. At least the vile weather meant the streets were deserted.

Half a block from their destination, they hit another patch of ice and both of them went down. Kit wasn't hurt, but the earl gave a sharp gasp. As she helped him up, he panted, "The effect of the nitrous oxide is wearing off. Unfortunately."

The last two hundred yards seemed endless. When they finally reached his house, she frowned at the high marble steps. "I'll ring for your servants. It will take a couple of footmen to get you up to the door."

"There's a better way," he panted. "Down the alley."

By the time they reached a ground-level door at the rear of the house, she was so tired that she wasn't sure who was supporting whom. When he ordered, "Turn your back for a moment," she obeyed without even trying to cheat and steal a peek.

There was a sound of rasping stone, followed by a key grating in a lock. She turned back, curiosity revived. "If you keep a key hidden behind a brick, you must do this regularly. Why don't you use the front entrance like a proper earl?"

"I like to come and go unobserved sometimes." He opened the door into a drab hall lit by a small oil lamp.

"I'm beginning to think you're as big a sneak as I am." She helped him inside, thinking that it was dangerous to feel such comradeship with a suspect. "Since there's a cane in the corner, I assume that you can get upstairs on your own." She lifted the cane and handed it to him. "Good night, Lord Strathmore."

She had left escape too late. Before she could take a step, a long, powerful arm wrapped around her waist, stopping her in her tracks. "Not so fast, my felonious friend."

She tensed for battle, but he said reassuringly, "Truce, my dear, at least for tonight. It would be ungentlemanly to turn you over to the law when you saved my life."

"Then what do you want?" she asked warily.

"I want you to come upstairs and warm yourself so that you don't end up frozen in a gutter somewhere."

The earl was right; now that his warm body was no longer draped over her, she was shivering uncontrollably. After he closed and locked the door, she accompanied him up the stairs.

Though Strathmore leaned heavily on the cane, he managed quite well without Kit's help. She wondered if he had exaggerated his injury in order to get her to come with him. Very likely; it was obvious the earl was devious—exactly the sort of villain she was hunting for.

Yet in spite of her misgivings, she could not fear him. She felt an odd kind of rapport between them, a sense that they were kindred spirits. Rationally, she knew that the feeling was an illusion brought on by her need for companionship. She had never been good at being alone, and it was hideously tempting to turn her problems over to someone else. If only she dared trust Strathmore! She might take the risk if hers was the only life at stake, but she could not gamble with the safety of another.

Yet even if the earl was a monster, for tonight she was safe; rescuing him had given her a margin of grace. She winced at the memory of her terror when he was sliding to his death. Alarming and inconvenient Strathmore might be, but she didn't want him dead.

When they reached the next floor, he led her to the library, where the coals of a banked fire glowed. Kit went to the fireplace and knelt to build up the fire while Strathmore used the lamp to light a branch of candles. Then he limped to a cabinet and brought out a brandy decanter and two glasses. He poured a generous measure into each glass and emptied his in a single gulp. After refilling it, he sat in one of the wing chairs that bracketed the fireplace and began to wrestle with his boots. The left one came off easily, but the one on his injured leg proved more difficult.

Once the fire was burning briskly, Kit took a mouthful of brandy. The potency made her blink, but it certainly was warming. After a more cautious sip, she went to help the earl.

As she bent to grasp the boot, she felt a light touch on her head as he pulled her scarf down around her shoulders. "This is finally your real hair color, isn't it? Pretty."

She looked up and her breath caught. His eyes were golden, the warmth more intoxicating than brandy.

Trying to sound nonchalant, she said, "It's merely light brown, as undistinguished as hair can be."

He brushed back the strands which had escaped from the knot at her nape. "You do your hair a disservice. It's like shot silk, shimmering with streaks of amber and bronze."

She shivered when his fingertips grazed her temple. As a rake, he was first class. Determinedly she bent and tugged at his boot, but without success. Hearing his sharp, painful inhalation, she said, "It might be best to cut this off."

"And ruin my best pair of top boots?" he said, scandalized. "Try again. I'll survive."

Kit shrugged, then pulled with all her strength, almost landing on the floor when the boot suddenly came off. A spasm crossed his face and he bit off an oath.

Gently she touched the swollen ankle. "Are you sure this isn't broken?"

"Quite." He removed his cravat and used it to fashion a crude bandage around the ankle. Then he pulled up an upholstered stool and rested his injured leg across it. "As I said, this has happened before. It's only a sprain."

"A pity you don't have any more nitrous oxide to blot out the pain."

He made a face. "It was an interesting experience, but not one I care to repeat. Nitrous makes one lose control, which is not a state I enjoy."

"That news does not surprise me." Feeling a need to fuss, she found a folded blanket on the sofa and spread it over the earl. Then she took off her damp coat and scarf, retrieved her glass and settled in the chair on the opposite side of the fire.

Strathmore slouched back with a sigh. "What a very strange night this has been." He cocked an eyebrow at her. "I must congratulate you on your lying. I pride myself on being able to read people well, but you certainly fooled me at Chiswick's house. What the devil are you really up to?"

Her mouth tightened. "I should have known that you invited me in for an interrogation. It would have been wiser to take my chances with the cold."

"I'd have to be dead not to be curious," Lucien said dryly. "You were very convincing as a distressed sister. Do you really have a brother?"

She glanced down at the glass in her hands. "If I was convincing, it was because there was a… a core of emotional truth in what I said. However, the story was false. I have no brother, in the army or otherwise."

"Then why are you stalking the Hellions?"

She looked up again, her expression challenging. "Why should I answer your questions?"

"Does the fact that I am twice your size and notoriously ruthless count for anything?"

Sudden laughter lit her grave face. "Not tonight, my lord. Quite apart from having called a truce, you can't move fast enough to catch me."

He gave her a ferocious scowl. "It's a sad day when a man can't get any respect in his own home."

When she laughed again, he asked softly, "Who are you?"

She almost answered, but caught herself. "Diabolical man! Trying to disarm me with humor." She set her brandy glass down with a clink. "But you won't catch me that easily.'"

"Ah, well, it was worth a try." His levity faded. "There may be a truce between us tonight, but I can't allow you to continue your criminal activities. Quite apart from being illegal, housebreaking is a damned dangerous pastime."

"If you're so moral, why are you a Hellion?"

He had wondered when she would point that out. "I'm not an official member of the club, though I will be soon."

Surprised, she said, "Why are you bothering to join? That lot hardly seem to be your sort."

"I have friends of many kinds. The Hellions are amusing, in an uncomplicated way. For more cerebral companionship, I look elsewhere." He regarded her thoughtfully over the rim of his glass as he took a sip. "My excuse is low tastes, but what is your interest in the group? You've been amazingly persistent."

Indecision on her face, she rose and began prowling about the room, moving with lithe, unconscious grace. The masks she had worn in their previous encounters had dropped away to reveal a glimpse of the real woman.

Yet still she was a paradox. In his work he had met more than his share of daredevils—usually male but sometimes female—who thrived on danger and taking risks. Jane was not one of that number, for she seemed to find no pleasure in her bold feats. There was a diffidence about her that was very real, yet it was coupled with the steely, bone-deep strength that had sent her into the lions' den time and time again.

Decision made, she swung around to face him. "Since there is a truce between us, and you are not yet an initiated Hellion, I will tell you the truth. You show signs of a conscience—perhaps what I say will persuade you to withdraw from the group."

The nitrous oxide must still be affecting him, for he said irrepressibly, "The truth will be a pleasant change."

She scowled. "This is not a laughing matter. I am a journalist. I write essays and articles for several periodicals. I have been working on an expose of the Hellion Club. In theory it is no worse than any other group of privileged, debauched men, but I have received information that some of their practices surpass the wickedness of the original Hellfire Club."

"Such as?"

"Kidnapping and murdering innocent young girls as part of their ceremonies," she said bluntly.

He sobered instantly. "Appalling if true."

"I'm quite sure it's true."

He thought of the members he knew. Impossible to believe that young Lord Ives, for examples, would condone ritual murder. "I have trouble believing that most of the Hellions would participate in such activities."

"You're probably right. I think that the viciousness is limited to an inner circle."

"The Disciples?"

She gave him a hard look. "You are familiar with them?"

"I know only that the Disciples exist, not their identities or what their purpose is. Do you think they are using the larger group to disguise their activities?"

"Exactly. I have some evidence, but I want more before I write my article."

"What kind of evidence have you found?"

"I met a girl who managed to escape from where she was being held prisoner. She told me what she had heard from her abductors and from some of the servants. Because her information was limited, I have been trying to learn more."

He drummed his fingertips on the arm of his chair. "It's rare enough for a young woman to be a journalist, but to pursue a topic like this strains credulity."

"In other words you think I'm lying again?" she snapped. "If there were more female journalists, there would be more writing on such subjects. England is full of women and children who have been brutalized, a situation many men consider normal."

Her words burned with conviction. They also produced a faint echo in the back of his mind. Something he had read… "What is your name? Perhaps I have seen some of your articles."

"Since no female essayist would be taken seriously, I write under several different names, depending on the publication."

That was plausible; most of the scribblers who wrote for the diverse, lively popular press had multiple identities. "I read widely. What is a name that you use regularly?"

She hesitated. "Do I have your word not to reveal it?" After he nodded, she said, "For the
Examiner
, I am L. J. Knight."

"Good God!" he exclaimed. The weekly newspaper she named was noted for its courage and reforming zeal; in fact, the two brothers who edited it were currently in jail for their disrespectful treatment of the Prince Regent. "L. J. Knight, the radical firebrand, is a young woman?"

"One doesn't need to be either male or old to see that there are many things in our society that need changing. In fact, my youth and sex are advantages, for I see the world differently from male writers," she said coolly. "I was twenty when I first submitted an essay to the
Examiner
. Leigh Hunt bought it immediately and asked for more."

Still not quite believing her, Lucien said, "I'm surprised that I've never heard that L. J. Knight is female."

"I communicate with Leigh Hunt and my other editors by post or special messenger."

Wanting to test her, he said, "I thought you were a bit hard on Lord Castlereagh in that piece you did on him last summer."

"You have confused me with another journalist. I've never written about the foreign minister." The ironic gleam in her eyes showed that she had recognized the attempted trap.

He considered more brandy, but decided that he needed all of his wits. "Have you learned much by burgling the Hellions?"

"Not as much as I would have if you didn't continually get in the way," she said, humor tempering her exasperation. "However, housebreaking is only part of my investigation. Evidence is mounting, and soon I'll be ready to write my piece."

"What have you learned?"

She shook her head. "I would be a fool to say more."

He studied the slim, feminine figure with respect. It took courage to challenge wickedness armed with only a pen. "My dear, you are a constant source of surprises."

"As are you. For a professional wastrel, you have a remarkably inquisitive mind." She cocked her head. "Do you call all women 'my dear'?"

"Only those I like. Which is quite a number, actually."