Then it was over, and he lay sprawled on a sheepskin rug, his blood staining the white wool, his whole body Ump with repletion. "You are superb, mistress, " he panted. "Superb."

Choked with self-loathing, she spun on her heel and stalked from the room.

Chapter 11

Kit awoke shivering, her body drenched with sweat. It had been the most vivid nightmare yet, and it left her feeling nauseated. She tried to make sense of the images, but without success; the nightmare was so alien to her experience that it was like trying to understand Chinese. Only the emotions were recognizable: rage and anguish so intense that they threatened to drown her.

Viola rose from the foot of the bed and strolled up the blankets with a soft meow. Kit almost cried with relief when the cat gently butted her cheek in an unmistakable request for breakfast. The normalcy of the cat's plea helped Kit counter the torrent of misery that had engulfed her.

First she relaxed, muscle by muscle, until her shivering stopped. Then she filled her mind with positive emotions-peace, love, hope-until all of the wretchedness was washed away.

When calm had been restored, she climbed from the bed and drew on a robe against the chilly morning air. Then she draped Viola over her shoulder and headed to the kitchen, telling herself determinedly that she was making progress. She had gotten through the previous night without disgracing herself, and she had had the opportunity to study one of her suspects closely enough to eliminate him. Though that was negative information, it was another small step forward.

She fed the cat, put on the kettle, and brought out a loaf of bread. Then, as she lifted a knife to cut a slice, her mind suddenly flashed an image from the nightmare.

Though the details were vague, it was clearly some kind of mechanical toy. She froze, knife poised in midair and stomach churning. She knew only one man capable of creating such a device. Dear God, don't let it be Lucien, she prayed. Please don't let it be him.

Yet if it was…

She stared blindly at the glittering edge of the blade. Even if the man she sought was the Earl of Strathmore, she would not be deterred from her goal.

Glumly Lucien eyed the piles of information he had gathered on the Hellions. It was a positive embarrassment of riches about their finances, their politics, their love affairs, their public vices, and secret virtues. Yet he knew no more after sifting through the material than he had deduced through pure intuition. Most of the Disciples had chronic financial problems. Several had direct access to government secrets, and all moved in circles where information might be gleaned from the careless words of officials. Any one of them might have taken French money.

He wasn't doing any better in his search for his mystery woman. For two days his investigator had been canvassing Soho with the sketch of Jane. Some residents and shopkeepers thought she looked familiar, but no one could put a name or address to her. Perhaps the flaw was in the sketch, but he suspected that the problem was her chameleonlike ability to look very different at different times.

On impulse he decided to put his papers away and go to dinner at his club. An amiable evening among friends might clear his fuzzy thinking.

Business and pleasure combined when Lucien found Lord Ives at his club. Though he did not suspect Ives of being the Phantom, there was always a chance that the youthful Hellion would say something interesting about other members of the group. More to the point, Lucien enjoyed the younger man's company. Anyone who could laugh at himself after being whacked in the nose with a bust improver was worth cultivating.

Over the port, Ives said, "I'll have to leave soon. I'm going to the theater tonight."

"Drury Lane?"

"No, the Marlowe, that new place on the Strand. Have you been there?"

"Not yet, though I've been meaning to attend," Lucien said with a stir of interest. "I've heard that it's giving the two royal patent theaters a run for their money."

"It's true-they're first-rate at comedy." Ives grinned. "And they have the most luscious opera dancers in London."

"You have your eye on one?"

"I've had more than my eye on her," Ives said with a touch of endearingly youthful pride. "Would you care to join me tonight? I'm not meeting Cleo until afterward, and I'll have the whole box to myself. Tonight there will be a performance of the company's most popular play. I can vouch that it's very diverting."

"I'd like that. I've always enjoyed the theater, but lately I've been too busy to attend."

The younger man began discoursing knowledgeably about the stage, past and present. Clearly the subject was a passion with him. He also mentioned that he had met Lord Nunfield through a mutual interest in the theater, and that acquaintanceship had led Ives to the Hellions.

As they finished their port, Lucien remarked, "The theater is a special place, and its people are a special breed."

"I admire the carefree way they live their lives," Ives said pensively as they left the club dining room. "Wouldn't it be wonderful if all females were as uninhibited as actresses?"

"I'm not sure the world is ready for that." Lucien signaled for their hats and cloaks to be brought. "When you marry, will you want your wife to be as free as an opera dancer?"

Ives gave a rueful smile. "Point taken."

Each man took his own carriage so they could leave separately later. They reunited in the box lobby of the theater and went up immediately since the performance had already begun.

Only the two theaters that held royal patents, Drury Lane and Covent Garden, were allowed to present "serious" drama. Other theaters, such as the Marlowe, skirted the law by including music and dancing so performances could be billed as concerts. Lucien and Ives took their seats as the house orchestra finished a spirited rendition of Handel's "Water Music."

After the music came the main event. According to the playbill, the title was The Gypsy Lass. It was an enjoyable bit of nonsense that started with a dashing young nobleman called Horatio being disowned by his stern father, the Duke of Omnium, after a wicked cousin made it appear that Horatio had disgraced the family name. Brokenhearted, the young man went into the wilderness, where he was saved from death by a troop of Gypsies.

When Horatio joined his new friends for a feast around the campfire, Ives said quietly, "In a moment a chorus of girls will come out and dance. Cleo will lead the line."

Brilliantly costumed and jingling with coin necklaces, the girls pranced onstage. Cleo was a lively wench with a pretty face and a saucy eye. As she raised the tambourine over her head, which did impressive things to an already impressive figure, she glanced up at their box and grinned at Ives. She looked like the delightful answer to a young man's prayer.

Then the chorus fell back a few steps and another Gypsy girl spun onto the stage to dance a solo. Her appearance produced a wave of applause. The newcomer was not a great beauty, but she had in full measure the indefinable quality that makes the best performers able to rivet the attention of everyone within sight.

The girl pivoted and leaped joyously across the stage, her skirts rising to reveal a delicate gold chain around one shapely ankle. As the tempo increased, her skirts floated higher, allowing tantalizing views of her calves and an occasional glimpse of a knee. She had truly superior legs.

When the girl glided to a halt, her gaze met that of the enraptured Horatio. The two stared at each other. She had an elegant profile, as pure as a Greek coin--

Lucien inhaled sharply, paralyzed by shock so intense it was physical. It wasn't possible, it bloody wasn't possible. Tightly he asked, "May I borrow your opera glass?"

Ives handed the glass over obligingly. The magnification proved that Lucien's eyes had not betrayed him. The long limbs and classic profile were unmistakably Jane.

His knuckles whitened around the opera glass. The woman he had thought to be a reserved, idealistic bluestocking was an actress. An actress, moreover, who was not the least bit shy about exposing an indecent amount of her lovely body to a theater full of strangers.

He handed the opera glass back, allowing only mild curiosity in his voice. "Who is the solo dancer?"

"That's Miss James-Cassie James. She plays Anna, the romantic interest. She's very good, isn't she?"

She was more than good; she was stunning as she whirled back into action. There was a glow about her that lit up the stage, eclipsing the other actors.

As mesmerized as Lucien, Horatio rose from the campfire and began dancing with Anna. Flirtatiously, she tossed her black hair and flounced the foaming layers of her skirts as she danced, her hem going higher with every turn.

"Any moment now, we should see the famous tattoo," Ives said softly. "Watch for it above her right knee."

Sure enough, her skirts swirled high enough to expose a design on her inner thigh just above the knee. The sight provoked a deafening roar of male approval from the audience.

Anna obligingly flounced her skirts again, provoking more shouts. Lucien wanted to grind his teeth. "What is the tattoo, a flower?"

"No, a butterfly."

Ives handed back the opera glass, and on Anna's next kick Lucien was privileged to view a frivolous black-and-scarlet butterfly etched on the silken flesh of her inner thigh. He wanted to swath her in a cloak that would cover her from chin to toes. He wanted to wring her untrustworthy neck. He also wanted, rather desperately, to press his lips to that teasing, maddening butterfly, then let them drift higher____________________