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conducted an intensely
dangerous and passionate congress beneath a scaffold once in some state room
under renovation in the Percy's great house at Syon, and the smell of sawdust
and plaster was mingled ever after with sweetly scented powder and soft skin in
his mind. The lady would have left her noble husband for him, she'd claimed that
much valor for herself, but S.T. could not imagine she'd have walked alone from
the north of England to Provence. In the end, she hadn't even left a message for
him when that selfsame husband had arrived to put an end to her daring and take
her home.
    Women.
    S.T. sat brooding on the past. There was something about Leigh Strachan that
brought it back in all the glory and agony: what a splendid fool he'd been—but
so alive, so electric, every step a gamble, every stake a fortune; even the
memory seemed more real than the present. . . .
    Charon in the moonless dark, a shadow with silver hooves, shouts and the
yellow gold flash of pistol fire . . .
    He closed his eyes. He could feel his heart beat faster, taste the sweat and
excitement; he knew what the mask felt like on his face, how the black cloak
weighted his shoulders and the gloves smelled of saddle soap and steel. His
throat burned with cold air, with the effort of using his sword, of keeping
Charon between bit and heel: a dance to the left or right, a
pirouette
or a
capriole
with those silvered hooves to distract and confuse in the
night: a ghost horse that could ride the air.
    It had consumed him, the cool art and hot thrill of it, moving in a twilight
between wealth and dirt poverty, where the morality of what he did seemed
fitting in the face of such consummate injustice. He was deliberate in whom he
chose to champion and whom to torment. He'd studied his marks, gliding with them
through the polite salons, the green parks and shimmering masquerades; a
gentleman like the rest, unsuspected, shielded by the august and ancient name of
Maitland—singling out the blindest, the most smug and self-concerned for his
prey.
    But he'd never been a true crusader. He'd never had an honest mission. 'Twas
the sheer joy of the game, the risk and rebellion. He'd simply grown up an
anarchist at heart: an agent on the side of chaos. Until chaos had turned on
him.
    He sighed deeply and rubbed his palms over his face. Then he glanced at the
bed and sat up straight.
    Her eyes were open. When he stood, she looked toward him. For a moment there
was a trace of a smile on her lips, and then a look of slow realization changed
her face, as if she'd woken from a good dream into a bad one. She turned away
from him with a sullen move.
    "I told you not to stay with me," she said hoarsely.
    He frowned at her, at the thin sheen of perspiration on her pale skin. The
feverish color seemed to have subsided, but it was hard to tell in the
firelight. He reached out and touched her forehead. "It's broken, hasn't it?"
she murmured indifferently. "I shall survive." She was warm beneath his hand,
but not burning.
    He observed her narrowly. "God willing," he said.
    "What has God to say to it?" Her voice was weak, but it held a faint sneer.
"There isn't any God. The fever's broken. By tomorrow 'twill be quite . . .
normal." She closed her eyes and turned her face away. "Nothing will kill me, it
seems."
    He poured water for her. "Something's come damned close."
    She stared at the cup he held out. For a long moment, she made no move. Then,
with a weary sound of acquiescence, she lifted her hand. S.T. saw it tremble. He
put the cup down and plumped the pillows while she levered herself into a
half-sitting position.
    She sipped at the water, holding the cup in both hands. Her eyes drifted over
the room in a lackluster inspection. They came to rest on him. "You've been
stupid to stay."
    He rubbed his ear. She watched him over the cup rim. After a silent moment,
he took the water before she could spill it in her shaking fingers. "What else
was