"Most of 'em are."
Before he could reply, a voice bellowed from the taproom, "Sally, where the 'ell are you?"
She scooped up the bust improver, then ostentatiously turned away. "If you'll excuse me, I have to put me bosom back."
He found that he was strangely reluctant to leave. Sally intrigued him, and he wanted to know more about her. The impulse was dismaying, for he had never been given to seducing servants. Lightly he said, "Tell Killer Caine that he's a lucky man."
Yet as he left the tavern, he found himself hoping that Lord Mace would invite the barmaid to the next orgy, and that Lucien would be able to recognize her in a nun's robe.
Kit leaned back against the kegs, her heart racing. How could she have been so foolish as to trade quips with one of her suspects? Particularly Lord Strathmore,whose lazy-lidded eyes missed nothing, and whose charm made him doubly menacing. The tavern must be haunted by the bawdy spirit of some long-gone barmaid who had taken possession of Kit's wits and tongue, for she had been unable to refrain from bandying words with him.
It must not happen again. Though Strathmore had not recognized her as the chambermaid from Bourne Castle, he had thought her familiar, and another meeting might be disastrous.
She had come to the Crown and Vulture because she thought that an evening working among the Hellions would give her a better understanding of their individual characters. The usual barmaid, Bella, had not wanted to miss such a lucrative party, but Kit had promised to pass along whatever tips she would receive and five pounds over that.
Tempted but wary, Bella had asked why a lady would want to do such a thing. Without so much as blinking, Kit had spun a glib tale about being the sister of one of the Hellions, and having made a wager that she could disguise herself so that her own brother wouldn't recognize her.
Amused by the idea, Bella had told Kit what to do, then introduced her as a cousin who would substitute that night since Bella was feeling poorly. On the whole, the evening had gone well. Kit's witticisms had disguised her lack of experience, and no one had suspected that she was a fraud.
"Sally!" the owner bellowed again. "Stop lazing in there and start cleaning the back room."
After molding the bust improver into a convincing shape, she wearily went back to work. It was exhausting to play a part so different from her own nature, but at least, she thought sourly, she was getting used to being mauled by amorous, drunken men. Soon she would be an expert at escaping unwanted embraces.
What would it be like to be kissed by Lord Strathmore? He would smile at her with those amused green-gold eyes, and his touch would be light and sure. A woman might not want to escape him…
The thought made her shiver and quicken her step. One thing she knew: he would not be like the others.
After Kit had cleaned the empty back room, she returned to the main taproom. A few tenacious souls still slouched on settles by the fire. She was preparing to leave when a customer rose and approached. Her wariness dissolved when she recognized the burly, powerful figure. With a surge of hope, she said, "You're up late, Mr. Jones. Have you news for me?"
He shook his head. "Nary a thing since our last talk. I came to escort you home."
Swallowing her disappointment, she murmured, "Bless you. I wasn't looking forward to walking the streets alone."
He cast an amused eye over her as she drew on her cloak. "You've grown, lass. I scarcely knew it was you."
She smiled faintly. "That was the general idea."
He lit the lantern he had brought and held the door open for her. Outside, she shivered and pulled her cloak closer against the chilling mist. "I'll go to Marshall Street tonight."
He nodded and they set off side by side, their way illuminated by the dim glow of the lantern. When they were well clear of the tavern, he asked, "Did you learn anything useful?"
"Only in a general sense. Most of the Hellions seem fairly harmless. My guess is that Chiswick, Mace, Nunfield, Harford, and Strathmore are most dangerous. The first four have a kind of coldness that makes them seem capable of any kind of wickedness." She paused to circle a particularly dank puddle. "I don't know what to make of Strathmore. There is something menacing about him, yet he was ready to intervene when one of the younger men cornered me in the keg room."
Mr. Jones muttered a blistering oath. "You shouldn't be putting yourself in a position where you must suffer such insults, miss."
Her mouth tightened. "I hope you are not going to waste our time by trying again to change my mind."
"I should know better than that by now, shouldn't I?" he said wryly. "Don't discount Strathmore. He may have had a chivalrous moment, but of all that lot, he has been the hardest to investigate. All of my inquiries have come to dead ends. The man's a mystery, and that makes him dangerous."
"Your report said that Strathmore hasn't been involved with the Hellions for long, so probably he isn't the man we want."
"He's been with them long enough," Jones said grimly. "Not long ago, he killed two footpads, one of them with his bare hands. At least, he claimed they were footpads. You keep your distance from him, miss."
She shivered a little, remembering the earl's feline eyes. "I intend to." After that, there was nothing more to say. When they reached the little house on Marshall Street, Kit invited Mr. Jones to have a quick drink against the cold, but he declined.
"If I don't get home soon, my Annie will become suspicious." He gave a deep, rumbling laugh as he lit Kit's candle from his lantern. "She thinks that other women find me irresistible. Does my old heart good."
"You'll let me know if…?"
"Aye," he said gently. "If I learn anything at all, I'll notify you immediately."
Kit locked the door after him, then leaned against it for a moment, feeling the silent rooms welcome her. As always, her wrenching fears subsided, and it was possible to believe that everything would be all right.
She straightened when a small warm body stropped her ankles, purring loudly. "Don't try to turn me up sweet, Viola. You're only interested in your supper."
Kit boosted the plump tabby cat onto her shoulder, then took the candlestick and made her way to the tiny kitchen at the back of the house. The flat was small but comfortable, with a sitting room and one bedroom. The upper floor of the house contained a similar apartment and was home to actress Cleo Farnsworth. Though Cleo was actually a little younger than Kit, she was a warmhearted soul who mothered both Kit and Viola.
After feeding the cat, Kit built a small fire and wearily undressed. The flat's most unusual feature was a full wall of built-in closets. After hanging her garments, Kit opened the left closet, revealing several shelves of blank plaster heads. All but one supported a wig-all colors, all lengths, all styles.
With relief, Kit removed the garish red wig and ran her fingers through her own matted light brown hair. It was equally a relief to remove the padded forms that altered her figure and store them in the next closet, then scrub off her face paint.
Finally, she crawled into bed, where Viola was already snoozing on one pillow. As she waited for sleep, Kit prayed that her dreams would bring the inspiration she desperately needed.
The old man raised his bushy brows when he admitted his visitor. "I'd not have recognized you, my lord. You look like a lamplighter."
"Good. That is what I was trying for." Lucien took off his shapeless cap. "Thank you for receiving me so late."
The old man chuckled as he ushered his guest into the library. "A moneylender grows accustomed to odd hours, for there are many who don't want to be seen. What can I do for you, my lord? I'll not believe you have need of my services."
"You're right-it's not money I need, but information." He withdrew a list from his pocket. "I'd like to know which of these men have had recourse to you or your colleagues. In particular, are there any who needed money only after the emperor abdicated last spring? Or who had occasionally borrowed before, but have needed more lately?"