Mary Putney: Dancing on the Wind

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." Lu-cien'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 grief would have consumed him.

He knew how incredibly fortunate he was in his friends. It was no one's fault that even deep friendship could not repair the damage to a soul that had been torn in half.

As he drained his glass, he remembered the incident in the hall. "I had to separate Roderick Harford from one of your chambermaids, a girl named Kitty. He wanted to expand her duties in a way that didn't appeal to her."

Rafe grimaced. "Harford is an oaf. I hope you won't ask me to invite him here again; that might strain even the bonds of old friendship. Is the girl all right?"

"Shaken but not injured. I told her to skip the rest of her duties and go to bed-that I would make it right with you."

"Very well. I'll speak with the housekeeper in the morning to make sure the girl isn't punished for dereliction of duty." Yawning, Rafe got to his feet. "Will you leave with the others tomorrow, or stay on for a few days?"

"I'll be going back to London. I have a long way to go before I become a real Hellion."

"Oh, I don't know about that. Just think back to that first year when we were all in London."

They both laughed, then Rafe left. Lucien continued gazing at the fire. As a man who disliked excess, he wasn't looking forward to trying to infiltrate the Hellions. Yet he had no choice. Though what he had told Rafe was the truth as far as it went, what he hadn't said was that his finely honed hunter's instincts were in full cry.

The original Hellfire Club of fifty years earlier had been notorious both for its debauchery and for its exalted membership, which included many of the most influential men in England. The club had been founded by Sir Francis Dashwood, a man of great wealth and inventive depravity. Besides raising vice to new heights, members had reveled in mocking religion and had played political games with far-reaching consequences. If not for the Hellfire Club, it was quite possible that the American Colonies would not have revolted and become a separate nation.

The Hellions of the present day made no such exalted claims. In theory, it was only a jolly drinking and wenching society, little different from a dozen similar groups. Yet Lucien sensed there was something very wrong going on behind the group's facade, and he intended to discover what.

A pity that he didn't enjoy orgies.

The next morning the great hall of Bourne Castle was noisy as the guests and their servants prepared to leave. Under cover of the racket, the duke said to Lucien, "I asked the housekeeper about that chambermaid. Harford has cost me a servant-it was the girl's first day on the job, and apparently he distressed her so much that she ran off in the middle of the night."

Lucien thought of the maid's air of vulnerability. "She seemed shy. I hope she has the sense to seek her next job in a quieter establishment. A vicar's manse, perhaps."

"One odd thing-the housekeeper said that the girl's name was Emmie Brown, not Kitty."

Surprised, Lucien said, "Could it be two different girls?"

"No, Emmie Brown was unquestionably the chambermaid you talked to, and there is no other Kitty employed in the household."

Lucien shrugged. "Perhaps Kitty is a childhood nickname that the girl blurted out because she was upset."

It was a plausible explanation. Yet as he drove back to London, more than once he found himself wondering about the girl with two names. It gave her an air of mystery, and he did not like mysteries.

The next step in Lucien's campaign to become accepted by the Hellions took place the evening after his return to London, when he visited a tavern called the Crown and Vulture, site of the group's monthly carouse. Roderick Harford had invited him to come and said that his brother, Lord Mace, would be there.

A cold rain was falling, and Lucien was glad to enter the smoky warmth of the tavern. The taproom at the front was full of roughly dressed working men. After one look at Lucien's expensive clothing, the bartender jerked a thumb over his shoulder "Yer fine friends are that way."