She looked away. "I'm sorry if I have been rude. The fact that my father was an unreliable sort has tended to make me suspicious of male intentions."

"I have no dishonorable intentions where you are concerned, and I would enjoy your conversation even if you didn't have a twin sister. Could that be considered a basis for friendship?"

"Perhaps… perhaps it could," she said uncomfortably. "But I don't know if I wish for friendship."

"You're a hard woman, Lady Kathryn,"

"I prefer it that way, my lord." As if needing to change the subject, she asked, "Do you have a brother?"

"No." It was Lucien's turn to be uncomfortable. He started the curricle forward again with perhaps too much concentration on his horses. "I had a sister, but she died very young."

"I'm sorry," she said with genuine sympathy. "A sibling can be one's best ally against a difficult world, for no one else can ever so completely understand the forces that mold us for life."

"I adopted three brothers at Eton, and they've served me well," he said lightly.

She gave a faint sigh. "A family that one chooses must be more satisfactory than the sort one inherits."

"Usually it is, but when there are problems, they are as painful as with blood kin," he said, thinking of the trouble Michael had caused the previous spring. "Since you know Kristine better than anyone, surely you have some idea where I might look for her. I have reason to believe she might be living in Soho."

"She had a flat there once, but no longer," Kathryn replied. "I don't believe she is performing for the next week or two, so she may have left London." She gave him an unreadable glance. "If you learn anything, will you let me know?"

"I was about to ask the same thing. Surely she is more likely to communicate with you than me."

Kathryn stared down at her hands, which were clamped tightly in her lap. "We are no longer as close as we once were. Though I would be pleased to hear from her, I don't expect to."

He thought of the complex ties that bound twins and ached for Kathryn's loneliness. It must be difficult to live on the charity of a strong-minded aunt, cut off from her sister, who had been her closest friend. And it would be worse yet to feel that sister no longer cared for her.

Deciding he had upset his companion enough for one day, he turned the conversation to literature as they drove back to Lady Jane's house. When Kathryn was relaxed and discussing an abstract topic, her dry wit was very amusing.

He was pensive as he drove away. In her own way, Kathryn was as enigmatic as her sister. She was also, he realized unhappily, almost as alluring. He wanted to fan that hidden spark of passion into a flame. He wanted to kiss away her wariness and make her laugh without restraint. He wanted…

Damnation! He didn't know what he wanted. No, that wasn't true. He wanted Kit, and in his frustration he was transferring that desire to Kit's twin. Granted, the similarities between them were tantalizing, yet the differences were far more significant. The women were individuals, each with her own dreams and fears. To confuse them in his mind would be a denial of their essential humanity.

Besides, Kathryn was entirely too rigid for Lucien's taste. He reminded himself of that-repeatedly.

By the time he arrived home, his normally even temper was thoroughly foul. He needed to find Kristine before he turned rabid. Unfortunately, the progress he thought he had made had turned out to be an illusion. He was no closer to finding his Lady Nemesis than he had been before meeting Kathryn.


Interlude

She waited for him by the door. The instant he stepped into the anteroom, she cracked the whip across his shoulders. He spun around, surprised and aroused. Tonight she wore virginal white, like the innocent girl she was not, and a white veil floated over the soft, false blond curls. But her satin gown was only long enough to brush the tops of her thighs, and her long legs were encased in leather and black lace. "You look especially beautiful tonight, mistress," he breathed.

"Silence!" She stretched sensually so that the white satin strained across her breasts. "Of course I am beautiful, but I am not for the likes of you, slave. You must not touch me. You cannot look at me. You may not even think about me."

"You are cruel, mistress," he whimpered. "I can't help but think of you, and of the ecstasy I find in serving you."

She choked back the bile that rose at his words. When she had mastered her voice, she spat out, "Insolent swine! You must be punished for your presumption. Come into my dungeon."

Though he obeyed eagerly, he paused for a moment by the evil little mechanical device. She slapped the whip handle across his knuckles to start him moving again.

In the center of the rough-hewn stone chamber stood a large wooden frame. Touching him as little as possible, she shackled his wrists and ankles so that he was spread-eagled and on the frame.

Then she raised the hardest-edged whip she owned and used it to strip him naked. Endless hours of practice had made her an expert, and her control was exquisite. She knew exactly how much pressure was required to rend fabric, and how much more to graze the flesh beneath-how to raise a welt, and now to draw blood. Soon rents in his garments revealed the sweat-filmed skin below, and crimson stains marred the white linen remnants of his shirt.

She gauged her progress by watching his organ swell against the tattered fabric of his breeches. The more of his clothing she shredded, the harder he writhed against his bonds and the louder his moans for release.

Not until he was fully naked did she apply the final, vicious slash across the buttocks that she knew would bring him to orgasm. He gave a drawn-out wail of animal need, his hips pumping wildly as his seed spurted in a silvery arc. Then his whole body went slack, and he hung limply from the shackles, only the heaving of his chest showing that he still lived.

She drew the whip through her trembling fingers and wondered how long it would take him to die if she knotted the leather thong about his throat. The murderous impulse was so intense that she could taste it. His face would turn purple, and he would thrash in terror when he realized that this time there would be no escape, but he, would be helpless before her lethal rage.

Quickly, Before she could act on her desire, she whirled away and fled from the dungeon.

Chapter 20

Kit awoke with a smothered scream, her fingers cramped from her vicious knotting of the leather. Horrified, she looked at her hands in the dawn light. She half expected to see ridges gouged in the flesh, but they were empty. She had not really murdered anyone. It had only been another ghastly nightmare.

They were coming more often now, each uglier and more upsetting than the last, but this was the first time she had dreamed of murder. She tried to remember the fact, but it was too distorted-by rage? by fear?-to be recognizable.

Staggering from her bed, she made her way to the washstand and cracked the film of ice that covered the surface of the water in the pitcher. Then she splashed her face and hands, feeling like Lady Macbeth in her frantic desire to cleanse herself.

As she blotted her face dry, she tried to remember the dream more clearly, but she could see only fragments, nothing specific enough to identify. She had dressed and was in the process of combing her hair when a vivid image suddenly appeared in her mind. It was of an indecently dressed female slashing a whip across the naked body of a man.

It took her a moment to realize that she was seeing not real people, but mechanical figures. They were exquisitely detailed, right down to the hand-painted scarlet stripes on the man's back. A tinkling baroque tune accompanied the rhythmic rise and fall of the whip. She was seeing a music box-an obscene, clever music box that nauseated her.

Strathmore made mechanical devices. Would a man who crafted backflipping penguins also build such an appalling piece of perversity? She told herself that there had to be other men with such skills, but Lucien was the only one she knew, and he was a Hellion and therefore suspect.

More than once she had been tempted to tell him the truth and beg for his help, for he would be far more capable of achieving her,goal than she was. The vision was a harsh reminder that she dared not trust him, no matter how much she wanted to.

It was a relief when a knock sounded on the door. The caller would be Henry Jones, who had sent a note the day before requesting this early meeting. Hair still loose, she opened the door eagerly. "Have you learned something?"

"You're in luck, lass. Most of your Hellion friends will soon be spending a few days at Mace's estate, Blackwell Abbey."

She took his cloak. "Will it be one of their gentleman-only affairs?"

"Not this time. It's a Harford family tradition to hold a masked ball shortly before Christmas. Gives 'em a chance to show how much more money they have than the neighbors, I expect. Most of the county will be invited. Blackwell Abbey is a great sprawling place, so there will be dozens of guests and even more servants." He sat down with a gusty sigh and accepted a steaming cup from his hostess. "Thank you, lass. There's nothing like a spot of tea after a long night prowling London's underbelly."

After pouring a cup for herself, she sat opposite her guest, her face thoughtful. "With so many guests, it will be easy for me to blend in."