"Jackals," Lucien said with barely suppressed violence. The fighting might have ended, but he should have remembered that greed and violence were eternal. It was time to stop thinking about an elusive lady and concentrate on his real work. "Likely the rumors are no more than speculation and idle talk, but one can't take chances. I'll make inquiries. I'll also send word to my counterparts in Prussia and Austria. If there is a plan afoot to restore the emperor, perhaps it can be nipped in the bud."

"I hope so," Nicholas said gravely. "I surely do hope so."

The night was darkly overcast, but dry, perfect for criminal activity. Dressed entirely in black men's clothing and supplied with thin, strong rope and a grappling hook, Kit launched her career as a burglar at the town house of Lord Nunfield. The sardonic, amoral nobleman was one of her prime suspects.

The house next to his was temporarily vacant, so she was able to scale it without fear of being heard. From there it was simple to cross to the roof of Nunfield's house.

Lights in the basement indicated that the servants were spending a quiet evening in their own sitting room. The upper house was dark. After securing her rope around a chimney, Kit looped the line around her body and lowered herself to the level of a back window. It was strenuous work, even for a someone who had always been athletic to a most unladylike degree.

Luckily, the window she had chosen was fastened with a simple latch she could open with a knife. She paused to catch her breath inside, for she was panting heavily, as much from nerves as from exertion. This time if she was caught, there would be no way she could explain away her presence.

When her pulse steadied, she set to work. She had become adept at searching, and she was able to go through the upper floors of Lord Nunfield's modest dwelling very quickly. Though she paid particular attention to the master's bedchamber, she checked every room.

It all went flawlessly. Unfortunately, she found nothing of interest. By the time she leaned out the window and caught her dangling rope, she was inclined to think that Nunfield was not her man. Her next sortie would be to the town house of Lord Mace.

As she scrambled up onto the roof, she told herself that the evening had been successful in one respect: this time she hadn't been caught by the alarming Lord Strathmore.

For that, at least, she could be grateful.

Rafe's proposal to make a speedy settlement with the United States brought a surprisingly large number of peers to the House of Lords. The issue produced a brisk and occasionally virulent debate. Rafe himself was eloquent in promoting his resolution, and Lucien and Nicholas also gave brief speeches of support.

Debate continued until past midnight. When the matter was put to the vote, Rafe waited stone-faced, as if indifferent to the result. Lucien sat on his friend's right and kept a running tally of the results. It was going to be close, very close, and the chamber was silent with tension.

The resolution carried by a single vote. As a babble of voices rose, Rafe permitted himself a jubilant smile. "A good thing you came, Nicholas."

"Let's hope the resolution does some good." Nicholas clapped Rafe on the shoulder. "Well done. I was afraid that the crush-the-colonials crowd would win."

Rafe turned to Lucien. "Care to come to my house to celebrate? Perhaps we can do a little plotting about other kinds of pressure that might be brought to bear on the government."

"I'll join you later." Lucien scanned the crowded chamber. "There are some people I want to say hello to."

Lucien had not been surprised to see that Mace and Nunfield had attended, nor that they voted against the measure. He made his way through the crowd of peers to them.

Mace raised his brows when Lucien joined them. "You really favor surrendering to that rabble of Americans?"

"The issue is not surrender but compromise," Lucien said as they stepped to one side of the stream of men exiting from the chamber. "I see no point in continuing a useless war."

"It sounds as if you have dangerously liberal tendencies," Nunfield said with mock horror. "You probably read radicals like Leigh Hunt and L. J. Knight and agree with them."

"Sometimes I do." Lucien gestured at the crowd. "Peace shouldn't be a radical issue. Most people here have relatives on the other side of the Atlantic. I do myself. We should be making the Americans our friends, not burning their capital."

"It's true that they gave us tobacco, and for that we owe them something. Speaking of tobacco…" Mace produced a gilt snuffbox and opened it with an elegant flip of his left hand. After inhaling a pinch, he gave a sigh of pleasure. "Delightful. Almost as pleasing as nitrous oxide. Have you ever tried that?"

Though Mace's expression was casual, there was a note in his voice that made Lucien realize that the question was significant. "No, but I've heard of it, of course. I understand that inhaling the gas produces an effect like intoxication, only without the headache the next day."

"It's even better," Mace assured him. "Unlike alcohol, which often makes one morose, nitrous puts a man quite in charity with the world. That's why it's sometimes called laughing gas. I have a chemist who makes nitrous for me, and occasionally I invite a few friends over to enjoy it with me. In fact, I'm doing so tomorrow night. Care to join us?"

"I'd love to," Lucien replied, not entirely truthfully. "It's one of those things I've always wanted to try."

"Until tomorrow, then." Mace nodded and went on his way.

As Lucien went in search of Rafe and Nicholas, he permitted himself an inward smile of satisfaction. Nitrous oxide had a reputation for loosening tongues and inhibitions, so he might learn some interesting things from other guests at the party. By the same token, he would have to make sure that Mace didn't learn anything from him. A good thing that Lucien was experienced at keeping his own counsel.

Chapter 8

Lucien deliberately went late to Lord Mace's nitrous oxide party. It was only two blocks from Strathmore House to Mace's home, so he walked. Since the weather was unseasonably cold, more like January than November, he had the streets to himself.

The draperies were drawn at Mace's, making the house so dark that it appeared unoccupied. However, an impassive butler answered Lucien's knock promptly, took his cloak, and guided him to the drawing room. The dim lamps illuminated about a dozen people, mostly male but including several women. What distinguished it from other social gatherings was the rapturous smiles and the large leather bladders all of the guests held and periodically inhaled from. Footmen moved about quietly, bringing new containers when guests signaled for replacements.

Lucien scanned the room, looking for his host. Several guests were talking and laughing together, though there was a disoriented quality to their conversation. Others, perhaps more intoxicated, had turned inward to trance-like states, more interested in their own sensations than their surroundings.

In a corner Lord Nunfield lounged in a chair, alternating sips of wine with inhalations from his gasbag. Closer to hand, Lord Chiswick sat on the floor with a giggling woman sprawled across his lap. He raised his deflated bag and waved it at a footman. " 'S empty," he said querulously. "Need more."

The servant silently brought another bulging bladder and exchanged it for the empty one. After sucking greedily at the pipe stem, Chiswick's expression dissolved into a beatific smile.

Mace's cool voice said, "Glad you made it, Strathmore."

"Thank you for the invitation."

Lucien turned and found that his host had a flushed face and pupils dilated so widely his eyes appeared black. If nitrous oxide caused that, it explained the low light level.

"You'll have to work hard to catch up with the others," Mace said. "Come in here where it's quieter."

He led the way into an adjoining reception room, and the two men settled into a pair of leather-covered chairs. A servant promptly brought over two of the leather bladders.

Lucien examined his, guessing that it held a volume of about a gallon. "How is the gas produced?"

"By heating some substance-ammonium nitrate, I think," Mace explained. "I won't let the chemist make it here, of course, because sometimes the stuff explodes. Go ahead, try some."

Lucien adjusted the pipe stem, then began inhaling the gas, hoping that it wouldn't rot his brain. After emptying the bladder, he said, "It's relaxing, but nothing more."

Mace took away the original gasbag and handed his guest a new one. "It takes several minutes to feel the full effect."

Midway through the second bladder, Lucien began to feel light-headed, though not unpleasantly so. He inhaled again and vibrant tingling pulsed through his body, dancing along his veins and thrumming in his extremities. Colors seemed brighter, and he felt exhilarated, intensely alive. "Interesting. I'm beginning to understand why you like this."

"It gets even better," Mace said as he signaled for more. "If nitrous was easier to obtain, drink would go out of fashion."

Lucien laughed, for the comment seemed very humorous. He hadn't felt so carefree since he was a boy.

Mace lifted a notebook and pencil from the table beside him. "Describe the sensations you're feeling. My chemist is compiling data on how different people react to nitrous."

"It's like… being music." Lucien groped to explain the unexplainable. "A friend once took me to Westminster Abbey to hear Handel's Messiah. The building resonated with the sounds of hundreds of instruments and singers. This is rather like that."