"If I'd known that, I'd have been tempted to kick you in the ankle earlier." Pulling her coat tightly around her, she headed for the door. "It's time for me to go."

He lifted a lamp and followed her. "I'll light you out." He gave her a smile that was as dangerously seductive as his kisses. "With a cane in one hand and a lamp in the other, there isn't much I can do in the way of seduction. Though if I think about it, perhaps I could come up with something."

"Then don't think about it," she said. Yet when they reached the stairs, she silently took the lamp so he could grasp the railing. It was another example of the odd way they worked together, an instinctive harmony she had known with only one other person.

They did not speak until they reached the side door. He turned the key in the lock, but kept one hand securely on the knob as he asked, "Where do you live, Jane?"

In the lamplight, his eyes were lucent gold. She was no match for a man like this, she thought despairingly. He was a master of mysteries she had never learned, and he used his knowledge with ruthless gentleness, beguiling rather than compelling her.

Knowing she must leave before her last grain of sense disappeared, she said rapidly, "Wardour Street. I have a flat at number 96. But what I said earlier was the truth, Lord Strathmore. There is no place in my life for you."

"Places can be created." He released the doorknob and stepped back, allowing her to slip past him.

The weather was even worse than earner. Luckily her destination was only a few blocks away. As she made her way through the silent streets, she found herself wondering again what it would be like to be free to reciprocate his interest. If his intentions were honorable, not villainous… if she successfully completed her mission--

Yet no matter how hard she tried, she could not imagine them together in any meaningful way. She had played a variety of roles and would play more, but none of her identities belonged in the Earl of Strathmore's wealthy, glittering world.

Chapter 10

After Jane left, Lucien was so tired he could barely manage the three flights of stairs to his room. Yet when he dropped into the bed, ankle throbbing, he felt deeply pleased. His mystery lady had admitted to a mutual attraction, and while she was still doubtful, the first steps toward a more rewarding relationship had been taken. Jane. He turned the name over in his mind. He didn't really see her as a Jane, but he was becoming accustomed to the name. Jane, quietly sensual, diffident but determined, with a tart tongue and the heart of a lioness.

It had been a pleasure to see her without wigs and cosmetics. Finally, he had an authentic face to visualize. He liked her softly waving hair, and her unpainted complexion had the delicate translucence of pearl. Most of all, he liked the intelligence and individuality that radiated from her now that she was no longer in disguise. He drifted off to sleep thinking of clear gray eyes and the soft warmth of her slim body.

The nitrous oxide left a parting gift: a restless night full of lurid dreams. The first was of passion with Jane, who was a dozen women in one while always gloriously herself. Yet after matchless fulfillment, she began to dissolve in his arms. He tried to hold her, but she vanished into the shadows, leaving him alone with a soul-destroying sorrow.

He awoke at dawn drenched with sweat. The images were already fading away, leaving only a haunting sense of loss. Perhaps the dreams were a warning to avoid Jane in the future. The more he wanted her, the more it would hurt if emotional intimacy proved unattainable. It was no accident that he had led a life of near-celibacy for years, and surely it would be wiser for him to continue on his solitary way.

His mouth thinned. It was too late to turn back-whatever the cost, he must continue his pursuit, for Jane had taken possession of his mind and imagination as no woman ever had. He would take his chances.

As he rang for tea, he told himself dryly that if there was a message in his dreams, it was to keep away from nitrous oxide. The brief euphoria had come at an exhausting price.

Lucien's ankle had improved overnight. After a thorough soak and expert bandaging by his valet, he could walk well enough to go out. As a concession to his injury, he rode in a closed carriage rather than driving himself.

Inevitably, his destination was Wardour Street. It was in Soho, an area known for artists, writers, eccentrics, and foreigners, just the sort of place where one would expect to find an independent woman such as Jane.

As he climbed from his carriage, cane in hand, anticipation bubbled inside him like champagne. He hoped she was in; if so, he would ask her out for a drive. It would be a pleasure to see her in daylight instead of the dead of night. Their relationship to date couldn't have been more nocturnal if they had been bats.

He grinned when he saw that the other side of the street boasted a tavern called the Intrepid Fox. It seemed appropriate, though Jane would more properly be called an intrepid vixen.

His anticipation began to fade when he studied number 96. It appeared to belong to a single household rather than being divided into flats. Still, appearances could be misleading. He gave a sharp rap with the brass knocker.

A trim parlor maid answered the door, her eyes widening as she saw the elegant gentleman on the steps. Using his most ingratiating smile, he said, "My cousin asked me to pay a call on her friend Jane at this address, but I'm afraid that I don't remember the young lady's last name. Is Miss Jane in?"

"Oh, there are no young ladies living here, sir." The parlor maid giggled. "Except me, of course, but I'm a Molly, not a Jane. Are you sure you have the right address?"

Cold rage washed through him, and his hand tightened on the cane. The devious little witch had made a fool of him again. He stood very still until he had mastered himself enough to say evenly, "Very likely I made a mistake. Perhaps number 69 is the house I want. If not, I shall write my cousin and ask for clarification."

With a polite tip of his hat, he turned and limped back to his carriage. Bloody hell, how could he have been so stupid as to believe she had told the truth? He'd like to blame the nitrous oxide for his misjudgment, but the real intoxicant was Jane, or whatever her name was, the only woman he had ever met who could turn his brain to rubble.

As he climbed into the carriage, he ordered his coachman, "Head for Westminster Bridge. I want to go to Surrey Gaol."

Leigh Hunt glanced absently up from his desk when the cell door creaked open. Recognizing his visitor, he stood with a pleased smile. "Strathmore, good of you to call."

The two men shook hands. Having visited the editor before, Lucien was not surprised by the rose-trellised wallpaper that brightened the stone walls, nor by the blue sky and clouds painted on the ceiling. Leigh Hunt was not the man to let a small thing like incarceration spoil his enjoyment of life.

A guard entered with a large vase of flowers. "I saw a vendor with these and thought you might enjoy them," Lucien explained as the guard set the vase on top of the pianoforte.

"Thank you." The editor stroked the bright petals of a chrysanthemum. "They are splendid for so late in the year."

"You're due to be released soon, aren't you?"

"February." Leigh Hunt grimaced. "And counting the days. I've made this cell as comfortable as possible, but when all is said and done, it's still a prison." He waved toward a chair. "Please, sit down and tell me what's happening in town."

"Since you are editing the Examiner from this cell, you probably know more than I do. Still, you may not have heard…" Lucien recounted several anecdotes his host would enjoy.

Gradually Lucien worked the conversation to the subject that had brought him to the jail. "By the way, I heard a rumor that one of your writers, L. J. Knight, is really a woman."

Leigh Hunt laughed heartily. "What utter nonsense!"

"I thought the story seemed unlikely," Lucien agreed. "What is Knight really like? From his idealism, I assume he's young."

"I really don't know. I've never met him in person; we deal through the post."

Interesting. Lucien asked, "Knight lives in the country?"

"No, he's a Londoner."

"So it is possible that Knight could be a female who uses a nom de plume to conceal her sex."

The editor shook his head. "Theoretically possible, perhaps, but no woman could write such powerful, well-reasoned essays."

If Leigh Hunt had ever met a female like Jane, he might be less sure of that. Of course she might have lied about being L. J. Knight, but Lucien was inclined to believe her; her zeal and knowledge of public affairs had been convincing. "Do you think Knight would mind if I called on him? I'd like to shake his hand. I don't always agree with his opinions, but he has an insightful mind. It's a pleasure to read his essays."

Leigh Hunt frowned. "I doubt if he would welcome visitors. I believe his health is poor, so he lives very retired."

Lucien gave a small nod. To be an invalid was the perfect disguise for an unconventional woman, and exactly the sort of cleverness he would expect of Jane.

"I wouldn't want to overtax the fellow's strength," he said piously, "but I have a proposal for him. The war is over and it's time for Britain to look ahead. I'd like to publish a pamphlet about my economic and social ideas. However, I'm an indifferent writer so I need to hire someone to present my views effectively. If you can give me Knight's address, I'll send a note and ask if he would consider the project. If he's not interested, I shan't disturb him."