A Rogues Proposal

Chapter 21

The instincts of years hadn't died-Demon woke long before anyone else in the house. And instantly remembered his last words. He tensed, waiting for horror to engulf him-instead, all he felt was a warm peace, a subtle sense that all was right in his world. For long moments, he simply lay there, luxuriating in that feeling.

A ticking inner clock finally prompted him to move. It wasn't yet dawn, but he had to leave soon. Turning on his side, he studied the angel snuggled beside him. He'd fallen asleep still inside her; during the night, he'd woken and disengaged, then gently settled her to sleep by his side.

How she woke was one of the delights already imprinted-etched-on his mind. Smiling, he gently tugged the sheet from her slack grasp and lifted it.

Flick woke to the sensation of him parting her thighs, to the sweet stroking of his finger in the soft flesh between. She never woke quickly-she simply couldn't do it. By the time her breathing had accelerated enough for her to lift her lids, she was hot and wet, aching and empty. In the instant before she would have tensed to move, he shifted over her, one hand pressing beneath her bottom to tilt her up, his hard thighs pressing hers wide.

He entered her-solid and hard and hot. He pushed in, and stretched her, filled her until she gasped, clutched and clung. He rode her and she joined him, their bodies locked together, driven and driving, seeking, climbing, racing until their hearts almost burst and glory rained upon them.

Flat on her back, gasping in the aftermath, she felt him still high and hard inside her. He hung over her, on his elbows, head bowed, chest working like a bellows. They were both hot, skins slick. The hair on his chest abraded her nipples-in her sensitized state, she could feel his hair elsewhere-on his forearms and calves, on his stomach, at his groin. Their limbs touched-everywhere; they were as intimately joined as it was possible to be. She had never been more physically aware of him-or herself.

His heart, thudding against her breast, slowed. Raising his head, he looked at her. "Have I convinced you?"

She lifted her lids and looked into his eyes, then deliberately tensed, tightening all about him, smiled, and let her lids fall. "Yes."

He groaned, moaned, dropped his forehead to hers-and predictably convinced her all over again.

As he left her room in a rush, flitting through the corridors like a thief to slip out of the side door before any maid caught sight of him, Demon swore on his soul that he'd never again underestimate an angel.

His morning was busy, but he was back in Berkeley Square by eleven, confident that now the Season was in full swing, his mother would not yet be down. As he'd requested before he'd left, Flick was waiting-she came gliding down the stairs as Highthorpe opened the door.

The light in her eyes, that glow in her face, took his breath away. As she crossed the hall toward him, the sun shone through the fanlight full upon her-it was all he could do not to pull her into his arms and kiss her senseless. If Highthorpe hadn't been standing in silent majesty beside him, he would have.

Flick seemed to sense his thoughts; the glance she shot him as she glided straight past and out of the door was designed to torment.

"We'll be back late in the afternoon." Demon threw the comment back at Highthorpe as he followed her down the steps. He caught her on the pavement and lifted her into his curricle.

Flick glanced at the empty pillion. "No Gillies?"

"He's off visiting his peers all over town." Retrieving the reins and rewarding the urchin who'd held them, Demon joined her; he set the bays pacing smartly. "I spoke to Montague-we've people everywhere. Now we know where to look, we'll find Bletchley. And his masters." He took a corner in style. "And not before time."

Flick glanced at him. "I had wondered…"

The Spring Carnival was next week. Demon grimaced. "I should have gone back and seen the Committee this week, but… I kept hoping we'd find something-at least one link, one fact, to support Dillon's story. As things stand, we should locate Bletchley by tomorrow evening at the latest-if he's anywhere within the ton, he won't be able to hide. As soon as we have any further information, I'll go back to Newmarket-at the very latest, on Sunday." He glanced at Flick. "Will you come with me?"

She blinked and opened her eyes wide. "Of course."

Suppressing a grin, he looked to his horses. "We haven't found any trace of the money-not anywhere-which is odd. We now think it has to be moving through the ton as wagers and overt expenditure. But no one's been throwing large sums around unexpectedly."

He flicked the reins; the bays stretched their legs. As they passed the gates of the park, he added, "I'd assumed the syndicate was too clever to use their own servants, but it's possible that, when both Dillon and Ickley declined to provide the necessary services so close to the Spring Carnival, they had no choice but to send someone already to hand-someone they trusted."

"So Bletchley's gentleman might be a member of the syndicate?"

"Possibly. Bletchley's a pawn, but he may still be being used at a distance. As a gentleman's groom, he'd have plenty of opportunity to meet with other gentlemen-just a word here and there wouldn't register as odd. There'd be no need for formal meetings."

Flick nodded. "I'll write to Dillon and tell him we'll be back by Sunday." Relief rang in her tone. A moment later, she realized her surroundings weren't familiar. "Where are we going?"

Demon glanced at her. "There's a sale at Tattersalls-carriage horses mostly. A pair of high-steppers I wouldn't mind picking up. I thought you might like to watch."

"Oh, yes! Tattersalls! I've heard so much about it, but I've never been there. Where is it?"

Her continuing eager queries left Demon in no doubt that he'd discovered the one woman in all England who would rather watch a horse auction than stroll down Bond Street. When, incapable of hiding his appreciation, he said as much, Flick blinked at him in blank bemusement.

"Well, of course-don't be ridiculous. These are horses!"

By mutual agreement, he bid on a pair of sweet-tempered, high-stepping greys, rather too finely boned for his taste-he didn't tell Flick they were for her. When they were knocked down to him, she was absolutely thrilled-she spent the time while he arranged to have them delivered to Newmarket making their acquaintance. He all but had to drag her away.

"Come on, or we'll never make it to Richmond."

"Richmond?" Consenting at last to let him lead her from the yard, she stared at him. "Why there?"

He looked down into her eyes. "So I can have you to myself."

He did, throughout a glorious day filled with simple pleasures, simple delights. They went first to the Star and Garter on the hill, to partake of a light luncheon. Settling her skirts at a table for two by a window overlooking the parklands, Flick noted that the other diners were definitely noticing them. She raised a brow at Demon. "Shouldn't we have some sort of chaperon for this type of outing?" Her tone was merely curious, certainly not complaining.

He met her gaze, then reached into his pocket. "I took this to the Gazette-it'll be run tomorrow." He handed her a slip of paper. "I didn't think you'd object."

Flick smoothed out the slip, read the words upon it, then smiled. "No-of course not." Refolding it, she handed the paper back-it contained a brief statement of their engagement. "So does that mean we can go about alone without trampling on society's toes?"

"Yes, thank heaven." After a moment, he amended, "Well, within reason."

Reason included a long ramble in the park, under the huge oaks and beeches. They fed the deer, then, hands locked, ambled on through the sunshine. They walked and talked-not of Dillon and the syndicate, or society-but of their plans, their hopes, their aspirations for the shared life before them. They laughed and teased-and shared brief, stolen, tantalizing kisses, screened by the trees. Those kisses left them trembling, suddenly too aware; in unstated accord, they turned back to the carriage and their talk turned to their wedding, and when it was to be.

As soon as possible was their unanimous decision.

As Demon had expected, his mother was waiting when they returned to Berkeley Square.

"Her ladyship is in the upstairs parlor," Highthorpe intoned. "She wished to see you immediately you returned, sir."

"Thank you, Highthorpe." Still smiling, Demon ignored Flick's questioning look; taking her hand, he led her up the stairs.

Reaching Horatia's private parlor, he knocked, then opened the door and sauntered through, towing Flick behind him.

Horatia, head already raised, fixed him with a look so severe-so filled with menacing portent-he should have been struck to stone.

Demon grinned. "How long does it take to arrange a wedding?"

The next afternoon, Flick went for a drive in the park with Horatia and Helena. The notice of her engagement to Demon had appeared that morning; Horatia was in alt. Indeed, she'd been so happy and excited on their behalf last night that they'd cancelled their evening's plans and dined unfashionably en famille so they could discuss their impending nuptials. As Demon's only stipulation was that it had to be soon, and she had nothing more to add, Horatia was beside herself with plans.

Naturally, Helena had been immediately informed-she'd appeared in Berkeley Square for breakfast, ready to join in the fun. She was presently seated in the carriage beside Horatia; both were regally dispensing information to the senior matrons of the ton, all of whom made a point of stopping by the carriage to comment, and compliment, and graciously bestow their approval.

Flick sat back, endeavored to look pretty, and smilingly accepted the ladies' good wishes. According to Helena and Horatia, that was all she was required to do.

Thus mildly occupied, Flick scanned the scene and wondered if Demon would appear. She doubted it-he didn't seem enamored of this facet of the ton. Indeed, she'd got the distinct impression that as soon as they were wed, he intended to whisk her back to Newmarket, to his farmhouse, and keep her there for the foreseeable future.

That plan met with her complete approval.

Lips quirking, she glanced at the carriageway, at the high-perch phaeton bowling smoothly toward them along the Avenue. The horses caught her eye; she viewed the high-stepping blacks with educated appreciation, then glanced at the carriage-spanking new, black picked out with gold-not showy but exceedingly elegant.

Idly wondering, she lifted her gaze to the gentleman holding the reins, but she didn't know him. He was older than Demon, brown hair curling tightly above a face that was startling in its cold handsomeness. His features were classical-a wide brow and patrician nose set between thin cheeks; his skin was very white. His eyes were cold under their heavy lids; his thin mouth was unsmiling. Overall, his expression was of overweening arrogance, as if even those blue bloods lining the Avenue were beneath his notice.

Flick mentally raised her brows as the equipage swept past; she was about to look away when her gaze touched the liveried groom up behind. Bletchley!

Flick turned to Horatia. "Who is that gentleman-the one who just drove past?"

Horatia looked. "Sir Percival Stratton." She waved dismissively. "Very definitely not one of our circle." She returned to Lady Hastings.

Flick smiled at her ladyship, but behind her demure facade, her mind raced. Sir Percival Stratton-she remembered the name. It took her a moment to recall from where-an invitation sent to Vane Cynster's house, redirected to his parents as Vane and Patience were still in Kent.

Sir Percival was giving a masquerade that evening.

Flick could barely contain her impatience. The instant she and her two soon-to-be relatives regained the Cynster front hall, she excused herself and quickly climbed the stairs-then rushed to reach the parlor ahead of Horatia and Helena. Quickly shutting the door, she raced to the mantelpiece and rifled through the pile of cards set on its end. She'd been helping Horatia answer the invitations; she'd seen Sir Percival's while sorting the cards one morning, and put it with the others for Vane and Patience. Finding it, she tucked it into the folds of her shawl, then sank down on a chair as the door opened and Helena and Horatia swept in. Flick smiled. "I thought, after all, that I might join you for tea."

She did, then excused herself, saying she would rest. Helena would soon leave, then Horatia would rest, too. They all had a full evening of engagements-a dinner and two balls.

That gave her a few hours in which to think what to do.

On the window seat in her bedchamber, she studied the heavy white card, inscribed with bold, black lettering. The invitation was addressed to Mr. Cynster, not Mr. and Mrs. Cynster; Sir Percival must not have realized that Vane had married. Sir Percival's masquerade was to commence at eight o'clock. Unfortunately, it was to be held at Stratton Hall, at Twickenham.

Twickenham was beyond Richmond, which meant it would take hours to get there.

Jaw firming, Flick jumped up, crossed to the bellpull, and sent a footman in search of Demon.

The footman returned, not with Demon but Gillies. He joined Flick in the back parlor.

"Where's Demon?" she asked baldly the instant the door shut behind the footman.

Gillies shrugged. "He was meeting with Montague, and then had some business in the city-he didn't say where."

Flick mentally cursed and fell to pacing. "We're due at a dinner at eight." Which meant there was no reason Demon would hurry home before six. She shot a glance at Gillies. "How long will it take for a carriage to travel from here to Twickenham?"

"Two and a half, perhaps three hours."

"That's what I thought." She paced back, then forth, then halted and faced Gillies. "I've found Bletchley. But…" Quickly, she filled him in. "So you see, it's absolutely imperative that one of us is there from the start, in case the syndicate decide to meet. Well"-she gestured-"a masquerade-what more perfect venue for a quiet meeting on the side? And even if the syndicate don't meet, it's vital we move quickly-we'll need to search Stratton's house for evidence and this is the perfect way to gain entry, the perfect opportunity to poke around."

When Gillies simply stared at her as if he couldn't believe his ears, she folded her arms and fixed him with a stern look. "As there's no way of knowing when Demon will return, we'll have to leave a message and go on ahead. One of us must be there from the start." She glanced at the mantel clock-it was already after four. "I wish to leave promptly at five. Can you arrange for a carriage?"

Gillies looked pained. "You sure you wouldn't like to reconsider? He's not going to like you hying off on your own."

"Rubbish! It's just a masquerade, and he'll follow soon enough.",

"But-"

"If you won't drive me, I'll take a hackney."

Gillies heaved a put-upon sigh. "All right, all right."

"Can you get a carriage?"

"I'll borrow her ladyship's second carriage-that's easy enough."

"Good." Flick considered, then added, "Leave a note saying where we've gone and why in Albemarle Street-I'll leave one here, too. One for Demon, and another for Lady Horatia. That should make all smooth."

Gillies's expression was the epitome of doubtful, but he bowed and left her.

Gillies returned driving Lady Horatia's second carriage, a small, black, restrained affair; he handed Flick into its dimness at just after five o'clock.

Settling back, Flick mentally nodded. Everything was going according to plan. By the time she'd convinced Gillies and returned upstairs, her little maid had returned from the attics with a full black domino and a wonderful, fanciful, feathered black mask. Both were now lying on the seat beside her. The evening was warm, heavy clouds hanging oppressively low. She would don her disguise when they reached Stratton Hall; she was sure no one would see through it.

Indeed, the mask looked quite nice on her, the black heightening the gold of her hair. She grinned. Despite the seriousness of what she was doing, of the syndicate and the danger, she felt a welling thrill of excitement-at last, they were close. At last, she was doing.

With mounting anticipation, she considered what lay ahead. She'd never been to a masquerade before-while such entertainments had once been commonplace, they didn't, it seemed, feature much these days. Idly, she wondered why, and put it down to changing fashions.

Regardless, she was confident that she'd cope. She'd been to heaps of balls and parties; she knew the ropes. And Demon would follow as soon as he got home-there was very little chance of anything going wrong.

Thunder rumbled, low, menacing, yet still distant. Closing her eyes, Flick smiled.

Gillies had stated that Demon wouldn't like her going into danger. Lady Osbaldestone had warned her that he was protective-she already knew that was true. She rather suspected she would be hearing a sound just like that thunder much nearer at hand once he caught up with her.

Not that she was shaking in her slippers. She sincerely hoped he never realized that his reaction was no deterrent. If there was something she felt she needed to do, she would do it-and gladly pay his price later. Ease and soothe his possessiveness. Just as she had at The Angel.

Swaying as the carriage rocked along, she wondered what his price would be tonight.

Demon returned home just after six, with a silly grin on his face and the deed to 12 Clarges Street in his pocket.

Only to find, stoically rigid on his doorstep, one of the footmen from Berkeley Square. The message the footman carried was almost hysterical.

He strode into his mother's parlor five minutes later. "What's the matter?" She hadn't said in her note-mostly a bleat about him never forgiving her, which was so out of character that he'd been seriously alarmed. The sight of her prostrate, sniffing what looked suspiciously like smelling salts, didn't ease his mind. "What the devil's going on?"

"I don't know!" Verging on the tearful, Horatia sat up. "Felicity's gone off to Stratton's masquerade. Here-read this." She waved a badly crushed note at him. "Oh-and there's one for you, too."

Demon accepted both. He barely glanced at hers before setting it aside and opening the missive Flick had left for him. As he'd expected, it was much more informative.

"She asked me who Stratton was this afternoon in the park, but I never dreamed-" Horatia gifted both hands in the air. "Well-who would have? If I'd known she'd take such a silly notion into her head, I would never have let her out of my sight!"

Demon returned to the note Flick had left her. "What have you done about your evening's entertainments?"

"She suggested I excuse her on the grounds of her having a headache-I've excused us both on the grounds of me having a headache-which I have!"

Demon glanced at her. "Stop worrying. She'll be all right."

"How do you know?" Suddenly noticing his relative calm, Horatia narrowed her eyes at him. "What's going on?"

"Nothing to get in a flap about." Returning her note, Demon pocketed his. Flick had told Horatia she'd been seized by a desperate longing to attend a masquerade, so had gone to Stratton Hall, expecting him to join her there. "I know what Stratton's masquerades are like." The admission made Horatia narrow her eyes even more; imperturbably, he continued, "I'll go after her immediately-she'll only be there an hour or so before I catch up with her."

Although clearly relieved, Horatia continued to frown. "I thought you'd be ropeable." She snorted. "All very well for me not to worry-why aren't you worried?"

He was, but… Demon raised his brows resignedly. "Let's just say I'm growing accustomed to the sensation."

He left his mother with her brows flying, and returned to Albemarle Street. Gillies's note gave him more details. Pausing only to extract his own invitation to Stratton's masquerade from the edge of his mantelpiece mirror, and to unearth his old domino and a simple half-mask, he hailed a hackney, and, once again, set out in Flick's wake.

Within two minutes of haughtily sweeping into Stratton Hall, Flick realized that no amount of tonnish balls and parties could ever have prepared her for Sir Percival's masquerade.

Two giant blackamoors wearing only loincloths, turbans, and a quantity of gold, each carrying a wicked-looking cutlass, stood guard, arms akimbo, in the front hall, flanking the main doors to the ballroom. Inside the enormous room running the length of the house the scene was similarly exotic. Blue silk flecked with gold stars draped the ceiling; the walls were an Arabian Nights' dream of silks, brocades and brass ornaments.

Mindful of her disguise, she didn't pause on the threshold and stare-spine straight, chin tilted at an imperious angle, she stepped straight into the crowd.

In the room's center, an elaborate fountain splashed; Flick saw guests filling glasses with the water-then realized it was champagne. The fountain was ringed with tables displaying delicacies galore; other tables elsewhere were similarly loaded with the most expensive fare-seafood, pheasant, caviar, quails' eggs-she even saw a roast peacock stuffed with truffles.

Wine was flowing freely, as were other spirits-the spirits of the guests were rising in response. Hearing the room's end, she heard a violin, and glimpsed a string quartet playing in the conservatory beyond the ballroom.

There were guests everywhere. Even behind their masks and cloaked in dominos, the women were remarkable-she'd yet to see one who was less than stunning. The men were gentlemen all-she heard it in their accents, invariably refined, and saw it in their clothes-many wore their dominos loose, more like a cloak, in some cases thrown rakishly back over one shoulder.

From the end of the room, Flick circled, searching for Stratton. The long windows giving onto the terrace had been left open to the sultry night. Black clouds raced, roiling across the sky. Thunder rumbled intermittently, but the storm was still some distance away.

"Well, well… and what do we have here?"

Flick whirled-and found herself pinned by Stratton's cold eyes.

"Hmm… a woodland sprite, perhaps, come to enliven the evening?" His thin lips curved but there was no warmth in his smile.

His gaze left her face to openly rove over her; Flick quelled a shiver. "I'm searching for a friend."

A calculating gleam entered Stratton's eyes. "I'll be happy to oblige, my dear, once the festivities begin." He lifted a hand. Flick instinctively recoiled but he was too fast. He caught her chin and tilted her face this way, then that, as if he could see through her mask. He was certainly aware of her resistance; it seemed to please him. Then he released her. "Yes-I'll keep an eye out for you later."

Flick didn't even attempt a smile. Luckily, Stratton's attention was claimed by some other lady; Flick seized the moment and slipped away.

The swelling crowd was growing restive. Flick plunged into it, purposefully crossing the room, leaving Stratton before the windows. In addition to the main ballroom door, there were three other doors leading into the house. Guests were arriving via the main door; thus far, she'd seen only footmen using the other doors. The masquerade was getting underway-while the noise exceeded that of the usual ton ball, it had yet to reach raucous.

Flick halted midway down the inner wall, with the fountain and its surrounding melee directly between herself and Stratton. He was reasonably tall-she could see him. She hoped he couldn't see her. From where she stood, she could keep watch on the doors leading into the house-if any meeting was to be held, she doubted it would be convened in the increasingly crowded ballroom.

Until Demon joined her, watching for any sign of a suspicious fathering was the best she could do. Her heart slowing, she relieved the urge to scrub at where Stratton had touched her chin. Settling against the wall, she kept a wary eye on him.

The gathering before her grew increasingly licentious-the guests might be wealthy and well-born, but she was quick to see why masquerades no longer found favor with the grandes dames. Even after spending two nights in Demon's arms, some of what she saw still shocked her. Luckily, there were rules of some sort. Despite the way some other ladies were behaving, letting gentlemen freely grope beneath their dominos, all the gentlemen present were gentlemen-those who paused to speak with her as she stood quietly by the wall treated her with courtesy, albeit, like Stratton, with a certain predatory intent.

She recognized that intent well enough, but most moved on once she made it clear she was in immediate expectation of being joined by her particular gentleman.

Unfortunately, there were exceptions to every rule.

"I say-your gentleman not here yet?" One predatory rogue lounged close. "Just realized you're still waiting-a pity to waste time, such a pretty little thing like you."

He reached out and flicked a feather on her mask; Flick swayed back, her frown concealed by the mask.

"Indeed." The rogue's friend appeared on her other side, his gaze trailing speculatively down her length. "What say we retire to one of the rooms along the hall, and you can show me and my friend here just how pretty you are, hmm?" He looked up, cool eyes searching hers. "You can always come back and meet your gentleman later."

He moved closer, as did the first rogue, crowding her between them. "I don't think my particular gentleman would like that," Flick stated.

"We weren't suggesting you tell him, sweetheart," the first all but whispered in her ear.

Flick turned her head to him, then had to turn the other way as his friend did the same thing.

"We wouldn't want to cause any ructions-just a friendly bit of slap and tickle to keep my friend and me going until the orgy starts."

Orgy! Flick's jaw dropped.

"That's it-just think of it as a case of mutual tummy-rubbing. Here we are, with our peckers twitching but the action some way off-"

"And here you are, a plump little, pigeon just waiting to be plucked, but with your chosen plucker not yet in sight."

"Right-a bit of hot fumbling and a few good pokes would ease things all around. What do you say?"

They both leaned closer, voices low, increasingly hoarse as they whispered, in quick fire exchanges, a stream of suggestive suggestions directly into Flick's ears.

Behind her mask, her eyes grew rounder, and rounder. Toes? Tongues? Rods…

Flick had had enough. First Stratton, now these two. They'd pressed close; jerking both elbows outward, she jabbed them in the ribs. They fell back gasping-she whirled on them. "I have never met with such arrogant presumption in my life! You should be ashamed of yourselves-propositioning a lady in such terms! And without the slightest invitation! Just think how horrified your poor mamas would be if they ever heard you speaking like that." They stared at her as if she'd gone mad; Flick glared, then hissed, "And as for your twitching appendages, I suggest you take them for a long walk in the rain-that should cure them of their indisposition!"

She glared one last time, then swung on her heel-

And collided with another male.

Hers. His arms closed about her before she bounced off. Clutching his domino, she looked up into his masked face. For a moment, his gaze remained levelled over her head, then he glanced down.

Flick frowned. "How did you recognize me?"

She was the only woman there with hair like spun gold and she drew his senses like a lodestone. Demon narrowed his eyes. "What in heaven possessed you-"

"Ssh!" Her eyes darted about. "Here-kiss me." Stretching on her toes, she did the honors. As their lips parted, she whispered, "This appears to be a bacchanal-by-another-name-we have to do our best to fit in." Sliding her arms beneath his domino, she sank against him.

Demon gritted his teeth and backed her into the space she'd recently vacated.

"Those two gentlemen who were talking to me-you'll never guess what-" She broke off. "Where did they go?"

"They suddenly remembered pressing engagements elsewhere."

"Oh?"

She shot him a glance. Demon ignored it, and her distraction. "What I want to know is why you thought fit-" He broke off on a hiss, sucking in a breath as she twined her arms about his neck and shifted her hips against him.

He stared blankly down at her-she smiled, and laid her head on his chest.

"I found Bletchley. He's Sir Percival's groom."

He studied her eyes, lit with anticipation, with expectant excitement, and inwardly sighed. "So your note said." Gathering her more comfortably into his arms, he shifted so he could view the room. "I suppose you've decided the syndicate will meet tonight."

"It's the perfect occasion."

He could hardly disagree-looking over the sea of heads, he noted the spontaneous distractions arising here and there in the crowd. "Those attending wouldn't even risk being recognized." He looked down and met her gaze. "Let's take a look around-Stratton's occasions are always open house." Aside from anything else, he wanted her away from the center of activity, although, as things went, Sir Percival's masquerade had a long way yet to go.

Boldly curving a palm about her bottom, he steered her toward the nearest door. Glancing down, he met her shocked glance, and raised a far from innocent brow. "We have to do our best to fit in."

He flexed his fingers-behind her mask, her eyes flared, then a dangerous glint entered the soft blue. Before he could stop her, she swayed close, slipped one slim hand through the opening of his domino and stroked, tantalizingly, up his length.

Sucking in a breath, he froze; she chuckled wickedly. Catching his hand, she swung to the door. "Come along." The look she threw him as she led him out would have convinced the most suspicious observer that her fell aim was entirely in keeping with Sir Percival's masquerade.

Drawing a steadying breath, Demon went along with her charade while considering a few elaborations to her scheme. Once in the corridor, he drew her closer, settling her within his arm, his hand returning to its former, stridently possessive position. Any others coming upon them in the dimly lit corridors would simply see two revellers searching for a quiet nook.

Many others were doing the same. Pausing before every door, Demon urged Flick to kiss him, then opened the door and half stumbled in, scanning the room without releasing her, mumbling an incoherent apology and swinging straight back out again if it was already occupied. All the downstairs rooms were, some hosting groups; despite his best efforts, it was impossible to completely screen Flick from the frolics in progress. At first, she stiffened with shock-by the time they'd covered all the downstairs rooms, her reaction had changed to one of curiosity.

A fact he tried not to think about. Some of what she was seeing she was definitely not up to. Yet.

"No meetings," Flick murmured as they turned back to the front hall. "Couldn't we just watch Stratton, then follow when he leaves the ballroom?"

"That might not help us. Remember what I said about Bletchley's employer not necessarily being one of the syndicate?"

Flick frowned. "Stratton's phaeton is brand new-his horses would have done you credit."

"Maybe so, but while Stratton's a deuced cold fish, he's also exceedingly wealthy." Demon gestured to their surroundings. "He inherited a massive fortune."

Flick grimaced. "He seemed such a promising candidate."

"Yes, well-" Reaching the hall, Demon turned her up the stairs. "I think we should check all the rooms."

Other couples, flushed and subtly dishevelled, laughing breathlessly, were descending the stairs as they went up. Demon drew Flick suggestively close as they climbed-with her one step ahead of him, their bodies slid against each other as they ascended.

They reached the gallery. Flick paused and whispered breathlessly, "Shouldn't we be checking outside? If it's not Stratton but some of his guests come to meet with Bletchley, wouldn't they use the garden?"

"It's raining-it started as I arrived. I think we can assume no meeting had taken place earlier. Now, it'll have to be held indoors-in some area open to the guests."

They continued their search. Some of the bedrooms and suites were occupied, others were empty. While they stumbled upon meetings aplenty, none were of the type they sought. Flick's shoulders had slumped long before they reached the last door at the end of the last corridor.

Demon tested the handle, then carefully turned it fully and tried the door. "It's locked." He started to turn back; Flick stood in the way, frowning at the locked door.

"Why locked?" She glanced back up the corridor. "His bedroom wasn't locked." She looked at the door behind which two couples were engaged in an energetic romp on Stratton's huge bed. "Nor was his dressing room or study." She nodded at each of those doors, then turned to stare at the last door. "Why would he lock this room and not any other in the house?"

Demon looked at her face, at her stubbornly set chin, and sighed. Placing his ear to the panel, he listened, then glanced down at the bottom of the door; no telltale strip of light showed. "There's no one in there."

"Let's look," Flick urged. "Can you unlock it?"

Demon considered reiterating that Stratton was not a good candidate for race-fixer, but her sudden excitement was infectious. He drew out the small tool he carried everywhere-a multi-pronged pick and knife useful for destoning horses' hooves. In less than a minute, he had the door open. The room within was empty; standing back, he let Flick in. Glancing back up the corridor, he confirmed it was empty, then shut the door behind them.

A warm glow suffused the room. Flick adjusted the wick on a lamp set on a wide desk, then reset the glass. They both looked around.

"An office." Demon glanced at ledgers and books of accounts filling one bookshelf. It wasn't a large room. A padded leather chair stood behind the desk; a wooden chair faced it. One wall was filled with windows looking out over the river-they presently displayed a landscape of driving rain and thick grey clouds backlit by sheet lightning. Thunder rumbled, drawing nearer.

"Half a library, too." Flick considered the wall of bookshelves opposite the windows. "I wonder why he keeps them up here. The library was barely half full."

Demon turned from the elemental rage outside and sauntered to the shelves. Scanning the titles, he found familiar volumes on various games of chance, and a few not so familiar on card-sharping techniques and ways of weighting the odds in some forms of wagering. Frowning, he looked more closely, eventually hunkering down to read the titles of the volumes on the lowest shelf. "Interesting."

His voice had changed-he read the titles again, then rose and turned to the desk, his frame radiating purpose.

Flick looked at him questioningly. He met her gaze as he joined her behind the desk, shrugging off his domino, slipping off his mask.

"Those"-with his head he indicated the bottom shelf of books-"are the full race records for the past two years."

Flick blinked. "The full records?"

Demon nodded and pulled open the top desk drawer. "Not something one finds in your usual library. I don't even have a set."

"How?…" Without finishing her question, Flick drew out the top drawer on her side of the desk.

"A set went missing last year-never to be found. But he's also added the most recent volumes-those from last season."

"A most useful tool for fixing races."

"Indeed. Look for anything that even mentions horses."

They were the ideal team for the task-they both knew the names of all recent winners, as well as those expected to win in the upcoming season. They sifted through every drawer, examined every single piece of paper.

"Nothing." Blowing an errant curl from her forehead, Flick turned and sat on the desk.

Grimacing, Demon dropped into the padded chair. Without enthusiasm, he lifted the last item from the bottom drawer, a leather-bound ledger. Propping it on the desk, he opened it and scanned the entries. After a moment, he snorted. "That phaeton is new, and he paid a pretty penny for it. As for the horses, he definitely paid too much."

"Anything else?"

"Caviar's gone up two pounds an ounce in the last year-his account-keeping habits are as stultifyingly rigid as he is. He enters every single transaction-even the lost wagers he's paid."

Studying the grim set of his face, Flick grimaced. "No entries under race-fixing, I take it?"

Demon started to shake his head, but he froze as one particular figure danced before his eyes. Slowly straightening, he flicked back a page, then another…

"What is it?"

"Remind me we owe Montague an enormous bonus." If it hadn't been for the agent's accuracy, he'd never have seen it. "Those amounts we were looking for-the sums cleared from each fixed race?"

"Yes?"

"They show up here. According to this, they're his main source of income."

"I thought you said he was rich."

Flicking back through the ledger, Demon bit back a curse. "He was-he must have lost it." He tapped an entry. "His income from the Funds was miniscule last year, then it ends. There've been huge debts paid-Hazard, at a guess." He looked up. "He never went to the wall-no one realized he'd been rolled up because he substituted income from race-fixing to cover his lost investment income. He's always been a lavish spender-nothing appeared to have changed. He simply carried on as he always had."

"Except he corrupted and blackmailed Dillon, and jockeys, and goodness knows what happened to Ickley."

"Or any others." Demon studied the ledger. "This is too wieldy to smuggle out." He flicked through the pages, then laid the book on the desk and ripped out five pages.

"Will that do?"

"I think so-they show the amounts from three fixed races going in, and five major purchases that can be traced to Stratton, as well as four very large debts paid to members of the ton who I'm sure will verify from whom they received those sums. On top of that, his writing's distinctive." He scanned the pages, then folded them and stowed them in the inner pocket of his coat. He returned the ledger to the bottom drawer. "We'll take the pages to Newmarket tomorrow-with any luck, he won't notice they're missing."

He shut the drawer and looked at Flick.

A board creaked in the corridor-footsteps paused, some way away-then quickly, purposefully, strode toward the office.