A Rogues Proposal

Chapter 11

Demon set out for London just after dawn. He kept the bays up to their bits, eager to reach the capital and the offices of Heathcote Montague, man of business to the Cynsters. After considerable thought, he'd hit upon a possible alternative means of identifying members of the syndicate.

Unbeknown to Flick, he'd visited Dillon and extracted a list of the races he'd fixed. He'd then called in favors from all around Newmarket to get the figures, including various bookmakers' odds, necessary to gauge just how much money had been realized through the fixes. His rough estimations had sent his brows rising high-the amount had been startling enough to suggest Montague might be able to trace it. Even a portion of the total should have left some discernible mark somewhere in the financial capital.

It was worth a try.

The road sped beneath his wheels. Demon's thoughts drifted back-to Flick. Impatience gripped him, a restless urge to hurry.

So he could return to Newmarket.

Lips setting, he shook aside the nagging worry-what possible trouble could she get into in two days? He would remain in London for only one night. Bletchley seemed settled; Gillies had his orders. All would be well.

His gaze fixed on the road ahead, he urged the bays on.

Three hours later, neatly garbed in her velvet riding habit and perched upon Jessamy, Flick went riding on Newmarket Heath.

Naturally, she expected to see Bletchley, idly watching the last of the morning gallops as he had for the past week.

To her consternation, she didn't see him. She couldn't find Gillies, Cross or Hills, either. Sitting straight in her saddle, she scanned the gallops-the rising stretches of turf where the last strings were pounding-then turned to survey the surrounding flats. To no avail.

"Isn't that just typical!" Gathering Jessamy's reins, she wheeled the mare and rode straight into town.

Without any idea what to do, Flick walked Jessamy down the paved street. Most of those about belonged to the racing fraternity-stable lads, grooms, trainers, jockeys. Some knew her and bobbed respectfully; all looked Jessamy over with keen professional eyes. Flick barely noticed.

Where had Bletchley been staying? She couldn't remember the inn's name. Demon had said it wasn't in Newmarket, but somewhere to the north.

But what had happened to Gillies and the others? They'd watched Bletchley for this long without mishap-could he finally have identified them and…

And what? She had no idea.

Doggedly, she headed north up the High Street, an ill-formed plan of inquiring at the inns to the north of town in mind. Halfway up the street, she came to the Rutland Arms, the main coaching inn. The mailcoach squatted like a huge black beetle before the inn's main door; she glanced at the passengers waiting to board.

A flash of scarlet caught her eye; abruptly she reined in. A curse from behind had her turning in her saddle. "Oh-I'm so sorry." Blushing, she drew Jessamy aside to let the racing string she'd impeded pass. The long file of horses with lads atop gave her useful cover; screened by them, she peered across the street.

"Yes!" Eyes lighting, Flick saw Bletchley, his red neckerchief a beacon, clamber up to the coach's roof. Then she frowned. "Why is he going to Bury St. Edmunds?"

Raising his yard, the guard blew a warning; the next instant, the coach lurched. Overloaded with men, apparently in rowdy mood, clinging to the roof, it ponderously rolled off up the High Street.

Flick stared after it. While she had no idea why Bletchley was heading to Bury St. Edmunds, it seemed unlikely he'd stop anywhere en route. There simply wasn't anywhere en route.

She had to find Gillies, and find out what had happened to him and Hills and Cross. She quickly turned Jessamy south, toward the stud farm.

And spied Gillies mounted on a hack not ten yards away. With a muttered exclamation, she trotted Jessamy over.

"Did you see?" She drew rein beside him. "Bletchley's gone off to Bury St. Edmunds."

"Aye." Gillies's gaze drifted up the street in the wake of the departing coach.

"Well"-Flick settled Jessamy as she danced-"we'd better follow him."

Gillies's gaze snapped to her face. "Follow 'im?"

"Of course." Flick frowned. "Isn't that what you're supposed to be doing?"

Gillies looked uncertain.

"Where are Hills and Cross?" Flick asked impatiently.

"Hills is at the farm-he was last on watch. Cross is over there." Gillies indicated with his chin. "He was watching Bletchley this morning."

Flick located the lugubrious Cross lounging in a doorway across the street. "Yes, well, now Bletchley has made a move, we'll need to organize to follow him."

"We will?"

Flick stared at Gillies. "What is the matter with you? Didn't Demon leave you with orders to follow Bletchley?"

Gillies stared back, then, mute, shook his head.

Flick stared even more; she couldn't imagine what was going on. But Gillies and Cross were out and about. "What are your orders?"

Gillies's face fell; his eyes took on the look of a mournful spaniel's. "To follow you, miss, and keep you out of trouble."

Only the fact that they were in a crowded public place prevented Flick from giving Gillies her opinion of his master's arrogance. His overweening conceit. His ridiculous male ego.

By the time she, with Gillies and Cross in tow, had retreated to the now empty Heath, she'd calmed down-to simmering. "I don't care what orders he gave before he left, he couldn't have foreseen Bletchley leaving. But he has, so we must improvise."

Gillies remained blank-faced. "The master was most particular, miss. He said we was to hold the fort here, and not let-not make any rash moves. Anyway, there's no need to follow Bletchley to Bury-chances are, when he wants to hie back to London, he'll come back through here on the coach."

"That's not the point!" Flick declared.

"Isn't it?" Standing beside them, Cross squinted up at Flick. "I thought that was it-that we was to watch him in Newmarket and see who he talked to here."

"Not just here." Flick drew a calming breath. "We need to see who he talks to wherever he goes. He might be going to Bury to meet with his masters."

Cross blinked. "Nah, he'll be-"

Gillies coughed, succumbing to a veritable paroxysm that had both Flick and Cross looking at him in concern. Blinking, he shook his head, waving his hand back and forth in a negative gesture. "It's all right," he said to Flick, but his eyes, bright and sharp, were fixed on Cross.

Cross's expression blanked. "Oh. Ah. Right-well."

Flick frowned at him. "We must organize to pick up the watch on Bletchley when he gets to Bury. The mail coach takes hours, so we have a little time."

"Ah-it's not that simple, miss." Gillies exchanged a glance with Cross. "Both Cross here and Hills have duties on the farm-they can't simply up and leave for Bury."

"Oh." Flick looked at Cross; he nodded.

"Aye-wouldn't do for us to leave the youngsters unsupervised, like.",

Flick grimaced. It was spring, and the stud farm would be a hive of rather serious activity; taking two senior stablemen away at this time was impossible. Especially not from an enterprise as highly regarded as Demon's. Absentmindedly, she settled Jessamy-tail swishing, the mare was growing increasingly restless.

Glancing up, Flick saw Gillies and Cross exchange a look she couldn't interpret; they almost looked pleased. "Well," she stated, "as we can't afford to let Bletchley roam about unwatched, I'll have to go to Bury myself."

Gillies's and Cross's reactions to that were easy to read-their eyes went round and their mouths dropped open.

Gillies recovered first. "But… but… you can't go alone." His eyes looked slightly wild.

Flick frowned. "No, but I don't want to take my maid." She looked at Gillies. "You'll have to come, too."

The lugubrious Cross shook his head. "Nah, you don't want to go to Bury just now." He looked hopefully at Flick.

She looked steadily back. "As Bletchley has taken himself off, I expect you should get back to the stud."

Ponderously, Cross nodded. "Aye, I'd better, at that. I'll tell Hills we don' have no pigeon to watch any more."

Tight-lipped, Gillies nodded.

As Cross lumbered off, Flick turned back to Gillies. A militant light in her eye, she transfixed him with a glance. "We had better make some plans over how to watch Bletchley at Bury St. Edmunds."

Gillies stiffened his spine. "Miss, I really don't think-"

"Gillies." Flick didn't raise her voice, but her tone stopped Gillies in his tracks. "I am going to Bury to watch Bletchley. All you need to decide is whether you'll accompany me or not."

Gillies studied her face, then heaved a sigh. "Perhaps, we'd better have a word with Master Dillon. Seeing as it's on his account, an' all."

Flick frowned harder; Gillies sucked in a quick breath. "Who knows? Maybe Master Dillon has some idea of what Bletchley's doing at Bury?"

Flick blinked, then raised her brows. "You're right. Dillon might know-or be able to guess." She looked around. It was lunchtime; the Heath was empty. "I'll need to go home for lunch or they'll miss me. Meet me at the start of the track to the cottage at two."

Resigned, Gillies nodded.

Flick returned the gesture curtly, then loosened her reins, tapped her heels to Jessamy's sides, and raced home.

After polishing off a late lunch at White's, Demon retired to the reading room with a cup of coffee and a large news sheet, behind which he could hide. That last was occasioned by his encounter with the Honorable Edward Ralstrup, an old friend who had joined him for lunch.

"There's a gathering at Hillgarth's tonight. All the usual crowd, of course." Eyes bright, Edward had thrown him an engaging grin. "Nothing like a few highly bred challenges to tune one up for the Season, what?"

"Challenges?" He'd immediately thought of Flick.

Edward's expression was one of blissful anticipation. "The ladies Onslow, Carmichael, Bristow-need I go on? Not, of course, that you'll need to extend yourself-not with the countess champing at the bit."

"The countess?" Reluctantly, he'd dragged his mind back from Newmarket and focused on the woman he'd shown to the door before he'd driven north. "I thought she'd returned to the Continent."

"No, no." Edward winked. "Seems she's conceived an affection for things English, don't you know. Colston had a touch at her-well, word was you'd gone north indefinitely-but it seems she's determined to hold out for… well, her description was 'something rather more'."

"Oh." He'd been conscious of a definite longing for Newmarket.

His less-than-enthusiastic response hadn't registered with Edward. "After Hillgarth's, if you're still standing, so to speak, there's Mrs. Melton's rout. Quite sure it'll be that, too-plenty of action there. And then tomorrow…"

He'd let Edward rattle on, while his mind slid back to Newmarket, to the golden-haired angel who was waiting for him, and who didn't know the first thing about matters sensual, let alone "something rather more."

"So-what do you say? Shall I pick you up at eight?"

It had taken all his persuasive talents to convince Edward that he wasn't interested-not in the countess or the many other delights that would be offered him about town. In the end, he'd escaped only by assuring Edward that he had to hie north again at dawn and was not about to risk his horses by staying up all night. As his care for his equine beauties was a byword throughout the ton, Edward had finally accepted that he was serious.

"And," Demon had added, struck by inspiration, "you might oblige me by letting it be known among the brotherhood that I've relinquished all claim on the countess."

"Ooh!" Edward had brightened at that. "I'll do that, yes. Nice bit of sport we should see over that."

Demon certainly hoped so. The countess was a demanding and grasping woman. While her lush body had provided a temporary distraction, one he'd paid handsomely and generously for, he had no doubt that his interest in her had been just that-temporary. Indeed, it had waned on the day he'd headed north.

Sinking into a deep armchair and arranging the news sheet like a wall before him, he settled to sip his coffee and ponder the discovery that life as he had known it-the life of a rakehell in the glittering world of the ton-no longer held any allure. Somewhat to his surprise, he could still imagine attending balls and parties-just as long as he had a certain angel by his side. He would enjoy introducing her to the ton's entertainments, just to see the expression in her wide eyes.

But the ton without Flick?

Anywhere without Flick?

He took a long sip of his coffee. This, he thought darkly, was what happened when fate caught a Cynster in her coils.

He was sitting in London, a town teeming with uncounted beauties, a surprising number of whom would be easily enough persuaded to reveal their charms to him-and he wasn't interested. Not in the beauties-not in their charms, naked or otherwise.

The only woman he was interested in was Flick.

He recalled imagining that it could never happen-that he'd never be satisfied with one woman. But it had. The only woman for him now was Flick.

And she was in Newmarket.

Hopefully behaving herself.

Doing the vases, reading her novels, and twiddling her thumbs.

Possibly thinking about desire.

He shifted in his seat, then frowned. No matter what setting he placed her in, his image of a patient Flick was not convincing.

Ten minutes later, he strode down the steps of White's, his goal the mews close by his lodgings where his bays were presently housed. There was no reason he couldn't leave London immediately. He'd seen Montague that morning, and spent an hour explaining the details of the race-fixing. Montague had done a few quick calculations and concurred with his assessment. The amount of money taken was enormous-it should show up somewhere.

Montague had connections Demon didn't want to know about. He'd left the hard-working agent, who thankfully thrived on financial challenges, with a gleam in his eye. If there was any way to track members of the syndicate through the money they'd taken, Montague would find it.

Which left him free to return to Newmarket, to the watch on Bletchley and his wooing of Flick.

Glancing down, he considered his attire-town rig of trousers, morning coat and shoes. There was no real reason to change. He doubted Flick would even notice, much less make anything of the fact that he hadn't stopped to change before racing back to her side.

Lips twisting wryly, he lengthened his stride and headed straight for the mews.

"Bury St. Edmunds?" Dillon frowned at Flick, then slumped into the chair at the head of the old table. "Why there?"

Flick pulled up a stool, waving Gillies to the other, wishing he was his master instead. "We were hoping you might have some clue. Obviously not."

Dillon shook his head, his expression one of patent bewilderment. "I wouldn't have thought there was any possible attraction in Bury, not for the likes of Bletchley."

"So," Flick stated, her tone businesslike, "we'll need to go to Bury and find out what the attraction' is. Like you, I can't see any reason Bletchley would have gone there, other than to meet with his masters."

Gillies, who'd been listening carefully, and even more carefully sizing up Dillon, cleared his throat. "There's a prizefight on in Bury St. Edmunds tomorrow morning. That's almost certainly why Bletchley's hied off there. The reigning champion of all England is to take the ring against the latest challenger."

"Really?" Dillon's lassitude fell away-he was suddenly all eager youth.

"A prizefight," Flick breathed, in the tone of one for whom a light has dawned.

Frowning, Gillies looked from one to the other. "Aye-so there'll be all manner of bucks and bloods and dangerous blades up from London-the town'll be fair crawling with them."

"Damn!" Dillon sat back, a frown in his eyes.

Gillies heaved a sigh of relief.

"Fancy a prizefight so close and I daren't show my face." Dillon grimaced and looked at Flick, clearly inviting her sympathy.

She wasn't looking at him. Grinning, her face alight, she slapped the table. "That's it!"

Gillies jumped. "What's it?"

"The prizefight, of course! It's the perfect venue for Bletchley to meet with his masters." Triumph in her eyes, she spread her hands. "It's obvious-members of the syndicate can come up from London and meet with Bletchley without in any way stepping out of their normal roles, their normal pastimes, the places they would normally be found. A prizefight is perfect."

Gillies paled. "No-I don't-

"You know," Dillon cut in, "you just might be right."

"Of course I'm right." Flick set her riding gloves on the table. "Now we need to work out how to keep an eye on Bletchley at Bury, given there's only me and Gillies to keep watch."

Both Flick and Dillon frowned; Gillies stared at them in patent dismay. "The master won't want you going to any prizefight." He made the statement to Flick, then looked at Dillon.

Dillon wrinkled his nose. "It'll be tricky, but the prizefight must be the venue for Bletchley to meet his masters. Someone's got to watch him."

Gillies dragged in a breath. "I'll go."

Dillon regarded Gillies, then grimaced. "Without belittling your skills, Gillies, it's damned difficult for one person to keep a full-time watch on a target in a crowd."

"Indeed." Flick frowned. "And besides, what if the meeting is held upstairs at the inn, in a private room? I can go upstairs." She turned to Gillies. "You can't."

"Well," Dillon put in, "you won't be able to either, not if you're disguised as a stable lad."

"I'm not going disguised as a lad."

Dillon and Gillies stared at Flick-Dillon with interest, Gillies with trepidation. Flick smiled determinedly. "I'm going as a widow-I have to be able to get a room to stay the night.",

"The night?" Dillon queried. Gillies simply stared.

"Most spectators from London will arrive this evening, won't they?" Flick glanced at Gillies.

"Aye." His voice was weak.

"Well, then-if a meeting is to be held, it could be held either tonight or tomorrow-which would probably mean after the fight." Flick frowned. "If I was doing the organizing, I'd hold the meeting tonight. There's bound to be groups gathering to while away the evening-another group meeting in a private parlor would cause no comment. But if they meet tomorrow, after the fight, it'll seem rather odd, won't it?" She glanced at Gillies. "I imagine most of the Londoners will leave from the field?"

Woodenly, Gillies nodded.

"Right, then." Flick nodded curtly. "The Angel's the major inn at Bury-it's likely everyone will gather there. So that's where I'll stay-we'll make that our headquarters. Between us, Gillies and I should be able to keep Bletchley in sight."

"The Angel will be booked out," Gillies protested. "Won't be any way you'll get a room there."

Flick's eyes narrowed. "I'll get a room-don't worry on that score."

"You said you'd go as a widow," Dillon looked at her. "Why a widow?"

Flick's determined smile deepened. "One"-she ticked her points off on her fingers-"men always seem to consider young widows to be in especial need of protection, which will help me get a room. Two, widows can wear concealing veils without raising brows. Three, a widow can travel alone-or at least with only her coachman." She looked at Gillies. "If you'd rather stay here and await your master, I can get Jonathon to drive me." Jonathon was the Hillgate End coachman.

Very definitely, Gillies shook his head. "I'll stick with you." Under his breath, he grumbled, "Those were my orders. Necks are going to be wrung enough over this without me sticking mine out."

Lifting his head, Gillies looked at Dillon and tried one last time. "The master's not going to like this."

Flick didn't think Demon would approve either, but she wasn't going to point out the obvious.

Dillon, however, did. "Pity Cynster's not here."

"But he's not." Flick swept up her gloves and stood. "So it's up to us to manage." She looked at Gillies. "Come to the manor stable as soon as you can-I want to leave within the hour."

In the well-sprung manor carriage, the trip from Newmarket to Bury St. Edmunds did not take long. They rolled into the town as the last traces of the day were fading from the western sky.

They joined the long queue of curricles, carriages, gigs and carts barely crawling along the main street.

Peering out the carriage window, Flick was amazed at the number of conveyances clogging the usually clear road. The clack of horses' hooves, the snap of whips and innumerable ripe curses filled the air. The pavements were awash with surging masses of men-laborers in drab, country squires in their tweeds, and gentlemen of every hue, from the nattily attired sportsman to the elegant rake, to the brash blades and bucks casting their eyes over any female unwise enough to appear in their sight.

Sitting back, Flick was glad of her thick veil. Not only would it hide her face but it would also hide her blushes. Glancing down, she wished she'd stopped to find a more "widowish" dress-one with a high neckline and voluminous skirts, preferably in dull black. In her haste, she'd donned one of her day gowns, a scooped-necked, high waisted gown in soft voile in her favorite shade of lavender-blue. In it, she didn't look the least like a widow-she suspected she looked very young.

She would have to remember to keep her cloak fully about her at all times whenever she was out of her room. The cloak, luckily, was perfect-voluminous, heavy and dark with a deep hood. An old trunk, in the attic recalled from childhood rummagings had yielded the heavy, black lace veil. Old-fashioned it might be, but it was precisely what she needed-it covered her whole head, her hair as well as her face, obscuring all identifiable features, yet it did not interfere too drastically with her vision.

She was going to need to see, and see well, to play the part she would need to play.

With the veil over her head, and her hood up, the whole secured with two pins, she was certain no one would recognize her. As long as she kept her cloak completely about her, all would be well.

Clutching her black reticule, also liberated from the old trunk, she waited impatiently for the sign of The Angel to appear. The carriage rocked, stopped, then rocked and stopped again. The sound of carriage wheels scraping came to her ears-she promptly shut them to the ensuing curses.

Fixing her gaze on the carriage's wall, she reviewed her plans. She had, she thought, managed well thus far. She'd told the General she'd taken a sudden notion to visit a friend, Melissa Blackthorn, who helpfully lived just beyond Bury St. Edmunds. Over the past ten years, she and Melissa had frequently simply visited, without formal arrangements. The General was always at home, and the Blackthorns were always in residence; there was never any danger of not finding a welcome. So she'd claimed she would visit Melissa and, as usual, stay overnight.

Both the General and Foggy had accepted her decision with a little too much readiness for her liking. The General's understanding smile, his gentle pat on her hand, had left her with the distinct-and she was sure not inaccurate-impression that he thought it was Demon's absence that had prompted her visit to Melissa. That his absence was the cause of her restlessness.

Flick wasn't at all sure how she felt about that-irritated, yes, but in a rather odd way. Frowning, she glanced out of the window and abruptly sat up. They were passing the main courtyard of The Angel, already a sea of men and boys all heading in one direction or another. The majority of visitors were still finding places to lay their heads; Flick prayed, very hard, that she'd be successful in carrying out the next phase of her plan. An instant later, the carriage lurched, then turned, and rumbled under the arch into the stable yard of The Angel.

Where pandemonium reigned.

Gillies hauled the horses to a stop, and two inn boys rushed to the carriage. One pulled open the door and let down the steps; the other ran to the boot. Flick allowed the first to take her hand and help her down; as the second, discovering the boot was empty, returned at a loss, she waved him to the carriage. "My bag is in there."

Her voice was steady; she'd deepened and strengthened her usual tones so that she sounded older, more commanding. It seemed to work; retrieving her one small bag, the inn boys stood respectfully as, having handed the horses over to the ostlers, Gillies came up.

Lifting her arms wide, palms up to encompass the scene, Flick turned dramatically and launched into her charade. "Good gracious, Giles! Just look at this crowd! Whatever's afoot?"

Gillies simply stared at her.

One of the inn boys shifted his weight. "It's a prizefight, m'lady. Over on Cobden's field t'morrow mornin'."

"A prizefight!" Pressing a hand to her cloaked breast, Flick fell back a step. "Oh, how distressing!" She glanced about, then looked at the inn. "I do hope the innkeeper has a room left-I could not possibly go another mile."

She stared-beneath her veil she glared-at Gillies.

After a moment, he said rather woodenly, "Indeed not, ma'am."

At least he'd remembered to address her as ma'am.

"Come, Giles-we must speak to the innkeeper immediately!" Gesturing dramatically toward the inn's main doors, she picked up her skirts and led the way. Her feminine tones, carrying a hint of imminent distress, had caused more than a few heads to turn, but, as she'd anticipated, the inn boys, responding to her dramatic flair, bustled close, eager to be part of whatever scene was to follow; together with the recently christened Giles, they cleared a path for her to the inn door.

Beyond the door lay a wide reception area fronted by a long counter presently manned by three harassed individuals-the innkeeper, his wife, and his brother. The length of the counter was packed with men-Flick could only catch glimpses of those behind it. Between her and the counter ranged a wall of male shoulders.

It had been years since she'd visited The Angel, but Flick recognized the innkeeper and made a beeline for him, giving wordless thanks when his sharp-eyed wife was called to deal with a customer at the counter's other end. The helpful inn boys, seeing that she'd be swamped, sent up a shout, waving her bag high. "Make way for the lady."

Flick could have kissed them.

Gentlemen's heads turned at the mention of a lady; as they took in her dark cloak and veil, those in her path politely stepped back. Between the inn boys and Gillies, she was conducted to the counter; as she fronted it, however, her escort deferentially stepped back, leaving her surrounded by gentlemen.

All of whom were studying her rather speculatively.

The innkeeper blinked at her; his expression one of concern, he asked, "Aye, ma'am?"

Flick took her courage in both hands.

"Kind sir"-her voice hinted at a quaver-"I have just arrived in your fair town only to discover this crowd before me." Setting her big black reticule on the counter before her, she clasped her hands tight about it so the innkeeper could not miss the huge square-cut topaz she wore on one gloved finger. It was not an expensive stone, but it was impressive in size and style; the innkeeper's eyes duly widened. Casting an agitated glance about her, she declared, "I have already travelled far this day-I cannot go further. My horses, too…" She let the words fade, as if the situation threatened to overwhelm her.

Turning back to the innkeeper, looking into his face, she imploringly put out a hand. "Oh, dear sir, please say you have one more room left for me?"

Her plea caused a hush.

The innkeeper pursed his lips. "Hmm." Brow furrowing, he drew his ledger closer and made a great show of scanning his lists of rooms, all of which Flick knew must already be taken.

Tapping his pencil, he glanced up at her. "Just you, is it, ma'am?"

Flick drew a deep breath. "Yes." She made the word sound very small, very weak. "I…" She drew in another breath and clasped her fingers more tightly on the reticule; the facets of the topaz flashed. "I was recently widowed-well, it's been six months, now, I suppose-I've been travelling… for my health, you understand."

She delivered the words in a slightly breathless rush, with what she hoped was just the right degree of feminine fragility. The innkeeper's lips formed a silent Oh, then he nodded and looked down.

Exceedingly glad of her veil, Flick glanced about; the innkeeper's eyes were not the only ones in which calculation gleamed.

"I say, Hodges," one of her neighbors drawled, "you'll have to find a room for the lady-can't possibly send her out into the night."

A deep rumble of assent rose on all sides.

"For the honor of Bury St. Edmunds, if nothing else," some other helpful soul put in.

The innkeeper, who was now scrubbing out and rewriting names on his lists, threw them a distracted frown. That didn't please some of his more arrogant customers. "Aside from the town's honor, what about this house's honor?" Directing a too-smooth smile her way, one rakish buck leaned on the counter. "Surely, Hodges, old chap," he drawled, "you wouldn't want it known that you're the sort of innkeep who turns away helpless widows?"

Flick gritted her teeth and suppressed an impulse to deliver a swift kick to the buck's nearby shin; Hodges was now scowling.

Luckily, he was scowling at the buck. "No need to take that tone, m'lord. I've found the lady a nice room-I hope I know my duty."

He shut his ledger with a snap. Turning, he reached for a key hanging with a full score of others on a board behind the counter. To Flick's consternation, all the gentlemen around her leaned forward, squinting at the board to read the number of her room!

She had, she realized, just saddled herself with a large number of champions, some of whom might be entertaining notions of a reward.

But as the innkeeper turned with a key dangling in his hand, she was too relieved to worry.

"If you'll just come this way, ma'am?" He waved to the end of the counter, to where a wide staircase led upward. Then he turned to the waiting crowd. "You gentlemen won't mind biding your time until I get the lady settled."

It wasn't a question. Grinning behind her veil, Flick glided to the staircase. Hodges, despite being a resident of Bury St. Edmunds, was clearly up to snuff.

Gillies returned to her side to briefly murmur, "I'll go find Bletchley." Then he melted into the ever-increasing crush as the innkeeper joined her.

"This way, ma'am."

Five minutes later, with a great deal of graciousness and enough care to make her feel slightly guilty, she was installed in the very best chamber the inn possessed. Hodges admitted as much when she exclaimed over the size of the room and the superior quality of the furniture.

With a gruff suggestion that she might prefer to have her dinner on a tray to avoid the crowd downstairs-a suggestion with which she readily agreed-he left her.

Flick blew out a breath, then returned to the door and threw the bolt. Crossing to the bed, she sank down upon it; extracting her pins, she pushed back her hood and veil.

And grinned triumphantly.

She'd done it! On the eve of a prizefight, she'd secured a room at the most prominent inn.

Now all she needed to do was find Bletchley-and follow him into his masters' presence.

Leaving Newmarket, Demon headed south, past the racecourse and his stable and on across the empty Heath. As he tickled his leader's ear, then sent the whip hissing back up its handle, the last glow in the west died. Night came slowly, approaching on silent wings, borne on the shadows that reached over the Heath to enfold the country in darkness. Before him lay his stud farm, with its comfortable parlor and one of Mrs. Shephard's excellent country dinners.

Between him and supreme comfort lay Hillgate End.

It was awfully late to pay a social call, but even before he'd formulated an excuse, he checked the bays and turned them up the manor's drive. Flick would be glad he was back early-she could tell him if anything had transpired in his absence. So could Gillies, of course, but he'd rather hear it from Flick. He'd only stay for a minute, just to assure himself all was well.

He brought the curricle to a scrunching halt in the gravel before the steps. A groom or stable lad-he couldn't see in the gloom-came loping across from the stable.

"I'll only be a few minutes," he called as he strode up the steps. Just long enough to see Flick's smile-to see her anticipation of tomorrow come alive.

Jacobs opened the door to his knock.

"Good evening, Jacobs." Crossing the threshold, he drew off his gloves. "Is Miss Parteger about?"

"I'm afraid not, sir." Jacobs closed the door and turned. "She left this afternoon to visit with a friend. I believe she's expected back tomorrow."

Demon managed to keep the frown from his face-he knew it showed in his eyes. "A friend."

"Miss Blackthorn, sir. She and Miss Parteger have been in the way of exchanging visits over the past years."

"I… see." The proposition that, with Bletchley on the Heath, Flick had abdicated her responsibilities-what she saw as her responsibilities-and had happily gone off to visit a friend, just like any other young lady, was simply too much to swallow. But Jacobs's easy expression declared that he knew no more; with a curt nod, Demon stepped to the door. "Tell her I called when she returns."

Jacobs hauled open the door. "And the General?"

Demon hesitated. "Don't bother him-I'll call and see him tomorrow."

He went swiftly down the steps and strode to his curricle, every instinct he possessed flickering, every nerve jangling. Accepting the reins with a distracted nod, he stepped up to the box seat and sat. Raising his hands to give the bays the office, he glanced at the groom.

And froze.

He frowned. "You're the coachman here, aren't you?"

The man bobbed his head. "Aye, sir." He jerked his head toward the stable. "The lads have gone home, so there's just me and old Henderson."

"But… if you're here, who's driving Miss Parteger?"

The man blinked. "Why, your man, sir. Gillies."

Light dawned-Demon didn't like what he saw. Jaw setting, he nodded to the coachman. "I see. Thank you."

He sprang the bays; when he reached the road, he set them flying.

Demon found no joy-no news-waiting for him at the farmhouse. Which, he reasoned, meant Gillies imagined they'd be back before the following evening. That didn't tell him where they were now-where they were spending this evening-and, more importantly, what they thought they were doing.

More specifically, what Flick thought she was doing-he doubted Gillies was behind this escapade. He had, however, given his henchman strict instructions not to let Flick out of his sight; it appeared Gillies was following those instructions to the letter.

Which was some small comfort.

After checking with the Shephards, who knew nothing, he paused only to consign the bays into the hands of his head stableman before swinging up to Ivan's back and riding out into the night. Both Hills and Cross lived in cottages north of the Heath-if he had to, he'd track them down, but first he'd check with Dillon.

If something had happened in his absence, it was possible that Flick had sought counsel with Dillon. Whatever had happened might even involve Dillon-he might be the reason Flick had needed a carriage. A host of possible scenarios, none of which he liked, fought for prominence in his mind. He pressed Ivan as fast as he dared over the rough trail to the cottage.

He glimpsed a faint light as he entered the clearing; it disappeared by the time he dismounted.

"It's me-Demon."

The glow returned, guiding him through the derelict lean-to and into the cottage proper. Dillon was standing by the table, his hands on the lamp; he looked up, his expression open and eager.

Demon met his eyes. "Where's Flick?"

Dillon grinned. "She's off gallivanting after Bletchley." Dropping into his chair, he waved to a stool. "She's convinced, this time, that Bletchley's going to meet with the syndicate."

Icy fingers clutched Demon's spine. Ignoring the stool, he halted by the table; blank-faced, he looked down at Dillon. "And what do you think?"

Dillon opened his eyes wide. "This time, she might be right." He glanced up as Demon's gloves hit the table; his engaging grin flashed. "A pity you weren't here, but Flick'll be there to see-"

A sound like a growl issued from Demon's throat. He grabbed Dillon by his shirtfront, plucked him out of the chair, shook him like a rat, then took one step and slammed him back against the cottage wall.

The chair crashed, the sound echoing in the stillness. The wall shook.

Wide-eyed, unable to breathe, Dillon stared.

Into Demon's slitted eyes.

Dillon was only a few inches shorter, but he was a great deal slighter. There was nine years between them, and it was measured in muscle. Demon knew he could crush Dillon's windpipe with one forearm-from the look in Dillon's eyes, Dillon knew that, too.

"Where is she?" His words were low, slow and very distinct. "Where is this supposed meeting to take place?"

"Bury," Dillon gasped. His chest heaved. "Bletchley went there-she followed. She was going to try to get a room at The Angel."

"Try to?" The Angel was a very large house.

Dillon licked his lips. "Prizefight."

Demon couldn't believe his ears. "Prizefight!"

Dillon tried to nod but couldn't. "Flick thought it was the obvious-the most likely place for the syndicate to meet with Bletchley. Heaps of bucks and blades up from London-all the riffraff and the Fancy, too. Well, you know-" He ran out of breath and wheezed, "It seemed like sound reasoning."

"What did Gillies say?"

Dillon glanced at Demon's eyes and paled even more. He dropped his gaze.

When he didn't answer, Demon tensed the muscles in his arms.

Dillon caught his breath in a rush. "He didn't want her to go-he said you wouldn't like it."

"And you? What did you say?"

Dillon tried to shrug. "Well, it seemed like a sensible idea-"

"You call letting a gently reared, twenty-year-old girl go waltzing out to spend the night in an inn filled to the rafters with a prizefight crowd sensible?"

A look of petulance passed over Dillon's face. "Well, someone had to go. We needed to learn-"

"You miserable coward!"

He didn't crush Dillon's windpipe-he hauled him up, shook him once, then slammed him back against the wall. Hard.

Then he released him.

Dillon collapsed in a coughing heap on the floor. Demon looked down at him, sprawled beside his boots. Disgusted and furious in equal measure, he shook his head. "When the devil are you going to grow up and stop hiding behind Flick's skirts?" Turning, he swiped up his gloves. "If I had the time, I'd give you the thrashing you deserve-" He glanced back; when Dillon groggily lifted his head, Demon caught his eye. His lip curled. "Consider it yet another piece of retribution from which Flick has saved you."

He stormed out into the night. Vaulting onto Ivan's back, he set course for The Angel.