A Rogue's Proposal (26 page)

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 mailcoach 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.”