A Rogue's Proposal (53 page)

She did, starting with the reception rooms opening from the front hall, then on up the stairs, going faster and faster as excitement gripped her. The pleasant, welcoming aura that hung in the hall recurred throughout the rooms, all airy and gracious, the morning sun streaming in through large windows. The master bedroom was large, the other bedrooms more than adequate; she eventually reached the nursery, under the eaves.

“Oh! This is wonderful!” She darted down the corridor that led to the small bedrooms, then crossed to peek into the nanny’s domain. Then, her heart swelling so much she thought it would burst, she turned and looked at Demon, lounging, all rakish elegance, in the doorway, watching her. She met his gaze, smiling but watchful.

He studied her face, then raised one brow. “Do you like it?”

Flick let her heart fill her eyes; her smile was ecstatic. “It’s wonderful—perfect!” Reining in her excitement, she asked, “How much is it? Could we possibly? . . .”

His slow smile warmed her. Drawing his hand from his pocket, he held up the keys. “It’s ours—we’ll live here while in town.”

“
Oh
!” Flick flew at him, hugged him wildly, kissed him soundly—then raced off again. She didn’t need further explanation—this would be their home—this the nursery they would fill with their children. After the last weeks, she knew family was a vital part of him, the central concept around which he was focused. Even if he didn’t know it, she did—this, from him, was the ultimate declaration—she needed no further vows. This—the home, the family—would be
theirs
.

Demon grinned and watched her. He still found her joy deeply refreshing, her open delight infectious. As he trailed her once more through the house, he wryly admitted he could now understand why so many generations of his forebears had found pleasure in indulging their wives.

That had been an abiding mystery before—it no longer was. He—Demon by name, demon by nature—had been vanquished by an angel. He no longer viewed her as innocent and youthful in the sense of being less able than he. After last night, he knew she could match him in any venture, any challenge. She was the wife for him.

And so here he was, trailing in her wake. She led—he followed, with his hand oh-so-lightly on her reins. What he’d found with her he’d found with no other—she was his and he was hers, and that was how it had to be. It was that simple. This was love—he was long past denying it.

Regaining the drawing room, she stopped at its center. “We’ll have to shop for furniture.”

Demon quelled a shudder. He followed her in, slid one arm around her waist, drew her against him, paused for one instant to watch the sudden flaring of awareness in her eyes, then kissed her.

She sank into his embrace; he tightened it about her. The kiss deepened—and they said all they needed with their lips, their bodies, their hearts. For one long moment, they clung, then he lifted his head.

The evidence he carried in his pocket crackled.

His chest swelled as he drew in a breath; she looked up—he met her eyes. “Let’s take these to Newmarket.” So they could get on with the rest of their lives.

She nodded briskly. They disengaged, straightened their clothes, then hurried out to the curricle.

By ten o’clock, they were bowling northward, the enclosed spaces of London far behind. Joyfully, Flick breathed deep, then turned her face to the sun. “We’ll have to go to Hillgate End first—to tell the General and Dillon.”

“I’ll drive to the farm. We can leave your things there for the moment, ride to the cottage and collect Dillon, ride on to the manor and tell the General, then go straight on to the Jockey Club. I want to get that information before the Committee as soon as possible.” His face hardened; he reached for the whip.

Flick wondered if his grim urgency stemmed from concern for the industry he’d so long been a part of, or from the nebulous feeling that they hadn’t, yet, defeated Stratton. That feeling hadn’t left her since Stratton had walked in on them last night—like a specter, it hovered at her shoulder, growing blacker, weightier. As they rounded a curve, she looked back, but there was no one there.

They drove through Newmarket in the early afternoon and headed straight for the farm. While Demon organized their horses, Flick hurried upstairs and changed into her riding habit. In less than half an hour, they were riding into the clearing behind the ruined cottage.

“It’s us, Dillon,” Flick called as she slid from the saddle. “Me and Demon. We’re back!”

Her excitement rang in her voice. Dillon appeared through the lean-to, struggling to contain the hope lightening his haggard features.

One glance was enough to tell Demon that Dillon had changed—somewhere, somehow, he’d found some backbone. He said nothing, however, but joined Flick as she headed for the cottage.

Even before she reached him, Dillon stiffened. Demon had never seen him stand so tall, so determined. Fists clenched at his sides, he met Flick’s gaze directly. “I’ve been to see the General.”

She blinked and stopped before him. “You have?”

“I told him all about it—the whole story—so you don’t need to lie for me—cover up for me—any more. I should have done that at the start.”

He looked Demon straight in the eyes. “Papa and I decided to wait until tomorrow in case you found anything, but we’ll be going to see the Committee regardless.”

Demon met his eyes and nodded, his approval sincere.

“But we
have
found something.” Flick gripped Dillon’s arm. “We’ve learned who the syndicate is and we’ve enough proof to show the Committee!”

One hand at her back, Demon urged her in. “Let’s take our revelations indoors.”

Neither Dillon nor Flick argued. If they had, Demon couldn’t have explained who he thought might overhear. But he was edgy, and had been since he’d looked into Stratton’s cold eyes the previous evening.

That Stratton had noticed them the instant they’d regained the ballroom had him worried. Stratton was known as cold and detached—he might well prove a formidable enemy. If there had been any way to safely leave Flick somewhere well out of the action, he’d have snatched the opportunity. But there wasn’t. That being so, the safest place for her was with him.

In the cottage, Dillon faced them. “I’ve written a detailed account of my involvement, first to last—just the bare facts.” He looked grim. “It’s hardly pleasant reading, but at least it’s honest.”

Flick smiled. Her inner happiness radiated from her, all but lighting up the cottage. She laid a hand on Dillon’s arm. “We’ve proof of the syndicate.”

Dillon looked at her, then at Demon; his expression said he hardly dared hope. “Who are they?”

“Not they—that was our error. It’s a syndicate of one.” Briefly, Demon explained. “I have to hand it to him—his execution was almost flawless. Only his greed—the fact he fixed too many races—brought the scheme to light. If he’d been content with the money from one or two major races a year . . .” He shrugged. “But Stratton’s lifestyle calls for rather more blunt than that.”

Reaching into his pocket, Demon drew out their evidence. “This was the key.” He smoothed out a sheet on the table. Flick hadn’t seen it before; together with Dillon, she crowded close.

“I gathered all the details I could about the betting on the fixed races, and my agent, Montague, worked out the amounts cleared from each one. He’s a wizard. If he hadn’t got it right—very close to exact—I would never have recognized the figures in Stratton’s ledger.”

Unfolding the sheets he’d torn from Stratton’s account book, Demon laid them alongside Montague’s sheet. “See?” Tapping various figures in Stratton’s income column, he pointed to similar figures on the other sheet. “The dates match, too.” Both Dillon and Flick glanced from one sheet to the others, nodding as they took it in.

“Can we prove these are Stratton’s accounts?” Dillon looked up.

Demon pointed to certain entries in the expenditure column. “These purchases of a phaeton, and here the pair to go with it—and even more these—lost wagers paid to gentlemen of the ton—can be proved to have been Stratton. With virtually the exact money from the races listed as income on the same pages, it’s hard to argue any case other than it was Stratton behind the race-fixing. These”—he gestured to the papers—“are all the evidence we need.”

Heeeee—crash!

With a tearing scream, the main door flew in, kicked off its rusting hinges to slam down on the floor. The whole cottage shook. Demon grabbed Flick as they backed up, eyes watering, coughing as dust reared and washed over them.

“How exceedingly foolish of you.”

The words, clipped, precise and totally devoid of all feeling, came from the man silhouetted in the doorway. The bright sunlight outside haloed him; they couldn’t see his features. Flick and Demon recognized him instantly.

Eyes on the long barrelled pistol in Stratton’s right hand, Demon tried to push Flick behind him. Unfortunately, they’d backed up against the hearth with its low chimney coping.

“Just remain where you are.” Stratton stepped over the threshold. He barely glanced at the papers lying scattered on the table, evidence enough to put him in Newgate, a long way from the luxury to which he was accustomed.

Demon tensed, praying Stratton would look at the papers—take his eye off him just for an instant . . .

Stratton hesitated, but didn’t. “You’ve been far too clever. Much too clever for your own good. If I didn’t have such a suspicious nature, you might even have succeeded, but I checked my ledger at four o’clock this morning. By six, I was on the road to Newmarket. I knew you wouldn’t dally. It was just a matter of time before you appeared.”

“And if we’d gone directly to the Jockey Club?”

“That,” Stratton admitted, “would have been exceedingly messy. Luckily, you drove straight through. It was easy to follow you on horseback. Equally easy to guess that, if I was patient, you’d lead me to the one player still eluding me.” He inclined his head toward Dillon, but the pistol, aimed directly at Flick’s chest, didn’t waver. He studied her for a moment, then sighed. “Such a pity, but after that little exposition, I fear I’ll have to make away with you all.”

“And how,” Demon asked, “do you imagine explaining that?”

Stratton raised a brow. “Explaining? Why should I explain anything?”

“Others know I’ve been investigating you in connection with the race-fixing.”

“Do they now?” Stratton remained very still, his eyes steady on Demon’s face, his aim never faltering from Flick’s chest. Then his thin lips eased. “How unfortunate—for Bletchley.”

Stratton’s jaw set. He lifted his arm, straightening it, aiming the pistol at Demon—

Flick screamed.

She flung herself at Demon, clinging to his chest, shoving him back against the chimney.

Stratton’s eyes widened—his finger had already tightened about the trigger.

Dillon stepped across Flick—the pistol discharged. The explosion echoed deafeningly between the cottage walls.

Demon and Flick froze, locked together before the chimney. Demon had frenziedly tried to wrestle Flick to the side, knowing he’d be too late—

They both continued to breathe, each searingly conscious the other was still alive. They turned their heads and looked—

Dillon slowly crumpled to the floor.

“Damn!” Stratton dropped the pistol.

Demon released Flick. She dropped to the floor beside Dillon. His face a mask of vengeance, Demon went for Stratton and nearly fell as his boots tangled in Flick’s skirts. He grabbed the table to steady himself and saw Stratton pull another, smaller pistol from his greatcoat pocket, saw him aim at him—

“Here! Wait a minute!” Ducking through the lean-to, Bletchley lumbered in. “What’s this about things being unfortunate for me?”

Belligerent as a bull, he made straight for Stratton.

Without a blink, Stratton swung his arm farther and shot Bletchley.

Demon vaulted the table.

Stratton swung to face him, raising his riding quirt—

Demon’s right cross snapped his head back with a satisfying
scrunch
. He followed up with a left, but Stratton was already on his way down. His head hit the flags with a thud. After one glance at Bletchley’s slumped form, Demon leaned over Stratton.

He was unconscious, his aristocratic jaw at an odd, very painful-looking angle. Demon considered, but restrained himself from rearranging any more of his features. Wrecking Stratton’s cravat without the slightest compunction, he dumped him on his face, hauled his arms back, secured them, then tied them to his ankles. Satisfied Stratton was no longer a threat, Demon glanced over the table. Flick was staunching a wound on Dillon’s shoulder.

Turning to Bletchley, Demon eased him onto his back. Stratton had been rushed, his aim fractionally off. Bletchley would live, hopefully to sing of his master’s infamy. Right now, all he could do was moan.

Demon left him to it—he wasn’t bleeding badly enough to be in any real danger.

From what little he’d glimpsed, Dillon was.

Rounding the table, Demon joined Flick, on her knees beside Dillon. She’d eased him onto his back. Her face white as a sheet, she struggled to contain her trembling as she pressed her wadded petticoat down hard on his wound. Demon glanced at her face, then looked at Dillon. “Ease back—let me see the wound.”

Relaxing her arms, she leaned back. Demon lifted the wad and quickly looked, then replaced it. His face easing, he looked at Flick as she reapplied pressure to the wound.

“It’s bad, but he’ll live.”

Blank-faced, she looked at him. Demon put his arm around her shoulders and hugged. “Stratton was aiming for me. Dillon’s shorter than I am—the ball’s in his shoulder; it hasn’t even touched his lung. He’ll be all right once we get the doctor to him.”

She searched his eyes; some of the cold blankness left her face. She looked down at Dillon. “He’s been such a fool, but I don’t want to lose him—not now.”

Demon hugged her tighter and pressed a kiss into her curls. He wasn’t all that calm himself, but he knew what she meant. If Dillon hadn’t come good at the last—hadn’t become man enough to, for once, shield Flick rather than expecting the reverse, Flick would have died.