Long enough to kill two men.
Half a dozen neighbors arrived bearing lanterns. One, an acquaintance of Lucien's named Winterby, exclaimed, "My God, Strathmore's been injured. Send for a physician!"
Lucien looked down and saw that his fawn-colored cloak was saturated with crimson. "No need-the blood isn't mine."
"What happened?"
"Two footpads attacked me." Lucien bent and picked up his hat. Now that the crisis was over, he was shaking with reaction. It had been a near thing, a very near thing.
"Shocking that a man ain't safe even in Mayfair," someone said indignantly.
A thin man who had knelt and examined the bodies gave Lucien a strange look. "They're both dead."
"Fortunately, I had my sword stick." Lucien retrieved the two sections of his cane. After wiping the blade clean on his ruined cloak, he screwed the handle back onto the base.
The thin man glanced down at Mirkin, whose eyes stared glassily and whose neck was bent at a strange, impossible angle. "Very fortunate," he said dryly.
Another voice murmured, "No wonder they call him Lucifer."
Raising his voice to cover the comment, Winterby said, "Come into my house for a brandy while the magistrate is summoned."
"Thank you, but since I live just ahead in the square, I'd rather go home. The magistrate can interview me there."
He took a last look at the bodies of the two men who had tried to kill him. What a strange life he lived, where forgotten business from the past might surface and destroy him at any moment. If Mirkin hadn't felt the need to explain himself, Lucien would be the one lying on the cold stones.
Wearily he turned toward Hanover Square, accompanied by one of Winterby's footmen carrying a lantern. The attack was a forcible reminder that it was time to address some unfinished business. Harry Mirkin had been only an instrument in the hands of another, more powerful figure, an agent of Napoleon who had worked against Britain for years. Mentally, Lucien had dubbed him the Phantom, for he had been as elusive as a ghost, always staying in the background while he worked his mischief.
After Napoleon's abdication in the spring, Lucien had concentrated on monitoring the treacherous undercurrents that swirled around the Congress of Vienna. That work had been more urgent than finding the Phantom, but the Congress was proceeding well, and the time had come to destroy the spy whose activities had prolonged the war and might complicate the peace.
Where to begin? There had been hints that the Phantom was a well-born Englishman, quite possibly someone known to Lucien himself. He would evaluate what little evidence he had, add a dash of instinct, and devise a plan to capture the traitor.
As Lucien climbed the steps to his house, he gave an ironic, self-mocking smile. Even a phantom could not evade Lucifer.
Chapter 3
The time was ripe for burglary. The male guests of Bourne Castle were downstairs drinking and boasting, their valets similarly engaged in the servants' quarters, and Kit Travers was as ready as she'd ever be.
She wiped her damp palms on the drab fabric of her skirt, telling herself that she was Emmie Brown, chambermaid, conscientious and not very bright. Her droopy mobcap reinforced that image, with the added benefit of obscuring her face. No one would ever guess that she wasn't what she appeared to be.
Taking the warming pan in one hand and a lamp in the other, she emerged from the safety of the backstairs into the upper west corridor of Bourne Castle. The wavering light of her lamp revealed a dozen identical doors.
Luckily, it was the house custom to place a card identifying the occupant in a bracket by the door of each guest room. Presumably that was for the benefit of illicit late night traffic. Kit had once heard of an amorous swain in search of his mistress who had burst through a door, crying, "Is Lady Lolly ready for Big John?" only to find that he had accidentally invaded the chamber of the seventy-year-old Bishop of Salisbury. The memory almost made her smile.
Levity faded as soon as she raised her lamp to check the first card. Mr. Halliwell. As far as she knew, he was not a member of the Hellions Club, so she moved to the next door. Sir James Westley. He was on her list, so she set down the lamp and hesitantly turned the knob. The door swung open under her hand.
Heart thundering, she stepped inside, trying to act as if she had every right to be there. Nonetheless, she was relieved to find that the room was as empty as it was supposed to be. She set the warming pan on the hearth, then began searching the clothes press.
Based on the evidence of his clothing, Westley was portly in build and dandyish in his tastes. Swiftly, she searched the hanging garments, paying particular attention to pockets, but she discovered nothing of interest. Then, one by one, she pulled out the trays containing linen. Nothing.
After a quick survey to ensure that everything was exactly as she found it, she closed the press and went to the writing desk. Several letters were tucked in a leather folio. Uneasily conscious of the passing time, she hastily paged through them. Again, nothing seemed relevant.
When there was nothing left to search, she ran the warming pan over the sheets, then departed. The next room housed the Honorable Roderick Harford. Excellent; he was a founder of the Hellions and one of the men she was most interested in.
More secretive than Westley, he had locked his door. Kit glanced left and right to assure that she was alone, then drew out a key that should fit the simple locks on most Bourne Castle rooms. If she should be discovered inside, she would claim that the door had been open, and it would be assumed that the lock hadn't caught properly.
The key worked with a little jiggling. She entered and began the same kind of search she had made of Westley's room. Harford was much taller than the previous man, and more careless of his clothing, with snuff stains on his linen. He should discharge his valet.
How much time had passed? Since all of the guests had put in an exhausting day of hunting, they might retire early. Nervously, she ran her hands between piles of folded cravats. If only she knew what she was looking for!
Once more it seemed there would be nothing of interest. Then she discovered a large, expensively bound book entitled Concupiscentia under a pile of shirts in the bottom drawer. She flipped it open, then grimaced. Apparently the Honorable Roderick had a taste for obscene and rather nasty etchings. He was obviously a man to watch.
She was heading toward the desk when she heard a key turning in the lock. For a terrified moment, she thought her heart would stop. Since the door wasn't locked, the man outside began rattling the key, trying to turn what was already open. Her momentary paralysis ended, and she dived for the warming pan, then flipped back the covers of the bed. By the time the Honorable Roderick Harford entered the room, she was blamelessly engaged in running the hot pan over his sheets.
In person he was even larger than her study of his clothing had implied. "What are you doing here, girl?" he growled in a drink-slurred voice. "My room was locked."
" 'Twas open, sir," she said in a thick country accent. Rounding her shoulders to ruin her posture, she continued, "If you don't wish your bed warmed, sir, I'll be on my way."
"The damned locks have probably been here since Henry the Eighth dissolved the abbeys. Candover should have them replaced," Harford said sourily. He closed the door and crossed the room, his steps a little unsteady. "Don't leave, girl. It's a cold night, and now that I think about it, I could use a little warmth in my bed."
Alarmed by the glint in his eyes, Kit dodged to one side as he reached for her. "I'll be leaving now, sir." She darted toward the door.