Mary Putney: Dancing on the Wind

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.

"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.