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.
After Napoleon's abdication in the spring, Lucien had concentrated on monitoring the treacherous undercurrents that swirled around the Congress of Vienna. That work had been more urgent than finding the Phantom, but the Congress was proceeding well, and the time had come to destroy the spy whose activities had prolonged the war and might complicate the peace.
Where to begin? There had been hints that the Phantom was a well-born Englishman, quite possibly someone known to Lucien himself. He would evaluate what little evidence he had, add a dash of instinct, and devise a plan to capture the traitor.
As Lucien climbed the steps to his house, he gave an ironic, self-mocking smile. Even a phantom could not evade Lucifer.
Chapter 3
The time was ripe for burglary. The male guests of Bourne Castle were downstairs drinking and boasting, their valets similarly engaged in the servants' quarters, and Kit Travers was as ready as she'd ever be.
She wiped her damp palms on the drab fabric of her skirt, telling herself that she was Emmie Brown, chambermaid, conscientious and not very bright. Her droopy mobcap reinforced that image, with the added benefit of obscuring her face. No one would ever guess that she wasn't what she appeared to be.
Taking the warming pan in one hand and a lamp in the other, she emerged from the safety of the backstairs into the upper west corridor of Bourne Castle. The wavering light of her lamp revealed a dozen identical doors.
Luckily, it was the house custom to place a card identifying the occupant in a bracket by the door of each guest room. Presumably that was for the benefit of illicit late night traffic. Kit had once heard of an amorous swain in search of his mistress who had burst through a door, crying, "Is Lady Lolly ready for Big John?" only to find that he had accidentally invaded the chamber of the seventy-year-old Bishop of Salisbury. The memory almost made her smile.
Levity faded as soon as she raised her lamp to check the first card. Mr. Halliwell. As far as she knew, he was not a member of the Hellions Club, so she moved to the next door. Sir James Westley. He was on her list, so she set down the lamp and hesitantly turned the knob. The door swung open under her hand.
Heart thundering, she stepped inside, trying to act as if she had every right to be there. Nonetheless, she was relieved to find that the room was as empty as it was supposed to be. She set the warming pan on the hearth, then began searching the clothes press.
Based on the evidence of his clothing, Westley was portly in build and dandyish in his tastes. Swiftly, she searched the hanging garments, paying particular attention to pockets, but she discovered nothing of interest. Then, one by one, she pulled out the trays containing linen. Nothing.
After a quick survey to ensure that everything was exactly as she found it, she closed the press and went to the writing desk. Several letters were tucked in a leather folio. Uneasily conscious of the passing time, she hastily paged through them. Again, nothing seemed relevant.
When there was nothing left to search, she ran the warming pan over the sheets, then departed. The next room housed the Honorable Roderick Harford. Excellent; he was a founder of the Hellions and one of the men she was most interested in.
More secretive than Westley, he had locked his door. Kit glanced left and right to assure that she was alone, then drew out a key that should fit the simple locks on most Bourne Castle rooms. If she should be discovered inside, she would claim that the door had been open, and it would be assumed that the lock hadn't caught properly.
The key worked with a little jiggling. She entered and began the same kind of search she had made of Westley's room. Harford was much taller than the previous man, and more careless of his clothing, with snuff stains on his linen. He should discharge his valet.
How much time had passed? Since all of the guests had put in an exhausting day of hunting, they might retire early. Nervously, she ran her hands between piles of folded cravats. If only she knew what she was looking for!
Once more it seemed there would be nothing of interest. Then she discovered a large, expensively bound book entitled Concupiscentia under a pile of shirts in the bottom drawer. She flipped it open, then grimaced. Apparently the Honorable Roderick had a taste for obscene and rather nasty etchings. He was obviously a man to watch.
She was heading toward the desk when she heard a key turning in the lock. For a terrified moment, she thought her heart would stop. Since the door wasn't locked, the man outside began rattling the key, trying to turn what was already open. Her momentary paralysis ended, and she dived for the warming pan, then flipped back the covers of the bed. By the time the Honorable Roderick Harford entered the room, she was blamelessly engaged in running the hot pan over his sheets.
In person he was even larger than her study of his clothing had implied. "What are you doing here, girl?" he growled in a drink-slurred voice. "My room was locked."
" 'Twas open, sir," she said in a thick country accent. Rounding her shoulders to ruin her posture, she continued, "If you don't wish your bed warmed, sir, I'll be on my way."
"The damned locks have probably been here since Henry the Eighth dissolved the abbeys. Candover should have them replaced," Harford said sourly. He closed the door and crossed the room, his steps a little unsteady. "Don't leave, girl. It's a cold night, and now that I think about it, I could use a little warmth in my bed."
Alarmed by the glint in his eyes, Kit dodged to one side as he reached for her. "I'll be leaving now, sir." She darted toward the door.
"Not so fast, sweetheart." He grabbed her wrist and jerked her to a halt. "You're a skinny wench, but you'll do for a quick blanket hornpipe."
It was easy to show terror. Tugging to get away, Kit wailed, "Please, sir, I'm a decent girl."
"There will be a gold guinea in this for you," he said with boozy cheer. "Maybe two if you do a good job of keeping me warm." He pulled her into a disgusting, port-soaked embrace.
Fighting would be useless against a man twice her size. She forced herself to relax, though she kept her mouth closed tightly against the attempted invasion of his tongue. Taking her stillness as compliance, he mumbled, "That's better, sweetheart," and moved one hand to her breast. "Show me how warm you are."
She took advantage of his relaxed grip to break away. She had made it to the door and was halfway into the corridor before he caught her again. "Like to play, do you?" he said jovially. "You're livelier than you look."
Panicking, she shoved violently at his chest, knocking him off balance. He clutched at her to save himself from falling, and succeeded in dragging her to the floor with him. They ended sprawled across the doorsill with their heads in the hall, Harford on top. As Kit gasped for breath, he pulled at her bodice, ripping it halfway to her waist. "Much nicer than I expected," he said huskily. "Maybe I'll make that five guineas."
She had feared many things of this night, but casual rape by a man who didn't even know her name was not one of them. Terrified, she tried to scream, but her cry was cut off by his mouth.
Suddenly, his imprisoning weight was gone and she could breathe again. Above her a cool voice said, "The young lady doesn't seem interested, Harford."
Kit looked up to see a tall, blond man pinning her attacker to the wall. Though the elegant newcomer seemed to be exerting no pressure, Harford was unable to break free.
"Mind your own business," Harford panted as he tried unsuccessfully to free himself from the blond man's grip. "She's a chambermaid, not a lady. I've never yet met a maid who wasn't flattered when a gentleman wanted to mount her."
"I think you've met one tonight. It would be one thing if she was willing, but it's bad form to rape your host's servants," the cool voice said with gentle reproof. "Candover would be most upset if you succeeded, and you know what a good shot he is."
The words penetrated Harford's drink-sodden brain. "I suppose you're right," he said grudgingly. "A scrawny maid is hardly worth fighting a duel over." The blond man released him, and he shuffled into his room with a yawn. " 'Night, Strathmore."
Kit stiffened. Dear God, her rescuer was Lucien Fairchild, the Earl of Strathmore. A man called, in whispers and after a wary glance in all directions, Lucifer. He and several of his rakish friends were collectively known as the Fallen Angels. She had not known that he was a Hellion.
Yet he could not have been more gentlemanly when he offered her a hand up. "Are you all right, miss?"
Wondering if she had gone from the frying pan to the fire, she took his hand and scrambled to her feet. "Y-yes, my lord."
When she looked into his face, she felt shock of a different kind. Like his namesake, Lucifer, the earl blazed brighter than mortal man. If vice had ruined him, it did not yet show in his face, but his green-gold eyes held the weariness of a man who had seen the flames of hell. She hoped that he was not her enemy, for she guessed that he would be a deadly adversary.
His grip tightened on her hand. "What's your name?"
She was so shaken that she automatically said, "Kit," before she remembered that she had joined the household as Emmie Brown. Furious that she had revealed her true name, she turned her error into a stammered, "Kit-Kitty, my lord."
His gaze ran over. "Perhaps you would be worth fighting a duel over, Kitty."
Realizing that her torn bodice had almost completely bared one breast, she cringed back and used her free hand to pull the ripped fabric over herself.
He immediately released her hand. Reverting to his former detachment, he said, "Get yourself a cup of tea and go to bed, Kitty. A good night's sleep and you'll be fine."
Though she would like nothing better, she said, "I haven't finished my work yet, your lordship."
"The rest of the guests can sleep on unwarmed sheets tonight. I'll explain why to the duke so you won't be punished." His gaze went over her again. "Tell the housekeeper to assign someone older to this particular task the next time a hunting party visits. Now get along with you, Kitty. And for your own sake, learn to sharpen your claws."
Glad to obey, she ducked her head and scuttled away like a girl who had been frightened out of her limited wits. It required no acting skill at all. She turned the corner of the hall and took refuge behind the door that concealed the servants' stairs.
Once she was safe, she sank onto the top step, set down the tools of her trade, and buried her face in her trembling hands. There were half a dozen more men whose rooms she should have searched, but she didn't dare continue. Apparently the party downstairs was breaking up early, and if she met another randy guest, she might not be lucky again.
Furiously she cursed herself for having accomplished so little. She had hoped to learn something that would narrow her search, but it had taken several days to arrange to be hired as a chambermaid and the hunting party was almost over. Tomorrow all of the guests would leave, and she had learned nothing.
Stiffly she got to her feet, feeling the bruises she had acquired when she had hit the floor. She might as well leave tonight, for she would be unable to learn anything more. Emmie Brown, unsuccessful chambermaid, would vanish. The housekeeper would merely mutter about the difficulty of getting good help and say good riddance.
As Kit climbed the dark steps to the tiny attic room that she had never slept in, she swore that she would do better.
She had no choice, for failure was unthinkable.
* * *
As he ambled down the corridor toward his room, Lucien thought about the vagaries of nature. The chambermaid was a simple country girl, a vulnerable innocent who was none too quick of mind and who had the bowed shoulders of someone ashamed of her height. Yet for an instant he had seen her face in profile, and it had the purity of a face on a Greek coin. Perhaps that was what had attracted Harford. No, the man probably hadn't noticed; the Honorable Roderick was not the discriminating sort.
Putting the maid from his mind, Lucien entered his bedroom, stripped off his cravat, and bent to build up the fire. Then he settled in a wing chair and contemplated the low flames while his mind gnawed at a random assortment of facts, trying to find some pattern. He was making no progress, so it was a relief when a quiet knock sounded at his door. He called, "Come in."
He was not surprised to see that his visitor was the Duke of Candover. He and his host had had no chance to talk privately during the hunting party. The duke entered carrying two glasses and a decanter in the crook of his arm. "You were so busy analyzing the other guests that you scarcely touched your port, so I thought you might like some brandy before going to bed."
Lucien chuckled. "Very thoughtful, Rafe. I suppose you were also hoping to learn why I asked you to invite such a motley crew to Bourne Castle on short notice."
"Always glad to place my ducal splendor at your service, Luce, but I'll admit I'm curious about what you're up to this time." The duke poured brandy for both of them, handed one glass over, then took the chair on the other side of the fire. "Is there any other way I can help your investigation?"
Lucien hesitated as he decided how much to say. When necessary, he had enlisted old friends, including Rafe, in his intelligence work, but he never did so without good reason. "Not this time—you're a little too respectable. It would look odd if you did anything more than invite the men I'm interested in for a casual hunting party. Speaking of which, thank you for obliging me. Arranging invitations to the famous Bourne Castle has enhanced my status with the Hellions."
Rafe gave a low whistle. "Of course. I had wondered why you asked me to invite those particular men. They're all in the Hellions Club. Why are you investigating the group? I thought it was just a loosely organized collection of rakes who like to fancy themselves as spiritual heirs of the old Hellfire Club, without the criminal behavior."
"That's mostly true," Lucien agreed. "The majority are young men who like to feel dashing and dangerous. After a year or two most outgrow the group's rather childish antics and drift away. But there is an inner circle called the Disciples, and they may be using the drinking and wenching as a cover for other, less acceptable activities." He made a face. "Which means that for the foreseeable future, I'm going to be spending a great deal of time with men of rather limited interests."
"My guests are all Disciples?"
"Most of them are, I think, though it's hard to be sure." Lucien frowned. "A pity that Roderick Harford's brother, Lord Mace, didn't come. I think that the two of them, plus their cousin Lord Nunfield, are the backbone of the organization. I have to win Mace's approval to be admitted to the group."
"Surely you know Mace already? I thought that as a matter of policy, you know everyone in London."
"Not quite, though I try. Mace and I are mere acquaintances—he isn't the sort I would choose as a friend. He's suspicious of everyone, and he seems particularly suspicious of me."
"As well he should be," Rafe said dryly. "I assume there are political
implications, or you wouldn't be investigating the group."
"You assume correctly. At least one government official was blackmailed about something that occurred during one of the Hellion orgies. Luckily he had the sense to come to me, but there may be other victims who haven't." Lucien studied the brandy in his goblet. "I also have reason to believe that someone in the group was selling information to the French."
Rafe's dark brows drew together. "Nasty if true, but with Napoleon gone, a spy should no longer be much of a threat."
"During the war, one of my agents in France died because a man in London revealed his identity to Napoleon's police. And there was other damage done." Lucien's eyes narrowed. "The war might be over, but I am not yet prepared to forgive and forget."
"If a Hellion is responsible, he'd better hope for infernal help." The duke smiled. "Even so, I'll back you to win."
"Of course," Lucien said lightly. "As leader of the Fallen Angels, I have first claim on all diabolical aid."
Rafe laughed, and they relaxed into a companionable silence. As he idly watched the flames, the duke asked, "Did you ever wonder how many pounds of cheese we toasted over fires like this one in our school days?"
Lucien chuckled. "I can't say that I have, but now that you've raised the question, I won't be able to sleep for trying to calculate how much."
Suddenly serious, Rafe asked, "Is it tiring to always have to know the answer?"
"Very," Lucien said tersely, his smile fading.
After a long silence the duke said quietly, "No one man can save the world, no matter how hard he works."
"That doesn't mean one shouldn't try, Rafael." Lucien gave his friend a wry glance. "The trouble with old friends is that they know too much."
"True," Rafe said peaceably. "That's also the advantage."
"Here's to friendship." Lucien raised his glass, then took a deep swallow of brandy. It was ironic that he and his three closest friends from Eton had acquired the nickname of Fallen Angels when they had descended on London after leaving Oxford; except for Lucien himself, they were the most honorable of men. When tragedy had shattered Lucien's childhood, what saved him was the blithe good nature of Nicholas, the calm acceptance of Rafe, the unswerving loyalty of Michael. If it hadn't been for them, loneliness and guilt would have consumed him.