A Rogue's Proposal (13 page)

“Nah. He went back to the Ox and Plough this afternoon, seemingly to check the post. He got a letter. Looked like he was expecting it.”

“Did he leave it there?”

Glancing at Bletchley, Gillies shook his head. “He’s got it on him, in an inside waistcoat pocket. He’s taking no chances of losing it.”

Demon sipped his beer. “What did he do after he got it?”

“Perked up, he did, and bustled right out again, back to the Heath for afternoon stables.”

Demon nodded. “I saw him there—it looked like he had Robinson’s string in his sights.”

“Aye—that’s my thought, too.” Gillies took another long pull from his pint. “Robinson’s got at least two favored runners in the Spring Carnival.”

“I didn’t see Bletchley approach any of the riders.”

“Nor did I.”

“Did he make contact with any gentlemen?”

“Not that I saw. And I’ve had him in sight since he came down the stairs this morning.”

Demon nodded, Flick’s warning in mind. “Stay at the stud tomorrow. Cross can follow Bletchley to morning stables—I’ll take over after that.”

“Aye.” Gillies drained his pint. “It wouldn’t do for him to get too familiar with my face.”

Over the next three days, together with Cross and Hills, two of his stablemen, Demon and Gillies kept an unwavering watch on Bletchley. With activity on the Heath increasing in preparation for the Craven meeting—the official Spring Carnival of the English racing calendar—there was reason aplenty for Demon to be about the tracks and stables, evaluating his string and those of his major rivals. From atop Ivan the Terrible, keeping Bletchley in view in the relatively flat, open areas surrounding the Heath was easy; increasingly, it was Demon who kept their quarry in sight for most of the day. Gillies, Cross and Hills took turns keeping an unrelenting but unobtrusive watch at all other times, from the instant Bletchley came down for breakfast, to the time he took his candle and climbed the stairs to bed.

Bletchley remained unaware of their surveillance, his obliviousness at least partly due to his concentration on the job in hand. He was careful not to be too overt in approaching the race jockeys, often spending hours simply watching and noting. Looking, Demon suspected, for any hint of a hold, any susceptibility with which to coerce the selected jockeys into doing his masters’ bidding.

On the fourth afternoon, Flick caught up with Demon.

Disguising her irritation at the fact that since leaving her before the manor steps, he’d made not the slightest attempt to see her—to tell her what was going on, what he and his men had discovered—she twirled her open parasol and advanced determinedly across the grass between the walking pens, her gaze fixed unwaveringly on him.

She was twenty yards away when he turned his head and looked directly at her. Leaning against the last pen’s fence, he’d been scanning the onlookers watching his and two other stables’ strings exercise. His back against the top rung, his hands sunk in his breeches pockets, one leg bent, booted foot braced on the fence’s lower rung, he looked subtly dangerous.

Flick inwardly humphed and dismissed the thought of danger. She was impatient—she wanted to be doing something, not sitting on her hands waiting to learn what had happened long after it had. But she’d dealt with Dillon and the General long enough to know how to approach a male. It wouldn’t do to show impatience or anger. Instead, smiling sunnily, she strolled to Demon’s side, ignoring the frown forming in his eyes. “Isn’t it a lovely afternoon?”

“Indeed.”

The single word was trenchantly noncommittal; his frown darkened, deepening the blue of his eyes. Still smiling sweetly, she turned and scanned the throng. “Where’s Bletchley?”

Straightening, Demon watched her check through the onlookers, then inwardly sighed. “Under the oak to the left. He’s wearing a scarlet neckerchief.”

She located Bletchley and studied him; against his will, Demon studied her. She was gowned once more in sprig muslin, tiny blue fern fronds scattered over white. The gown, however, barely registered; what was in the gown transfixed his attention, captured his awareness.

All soft curves and creamy complexion, she looked good enough to eat—which was the cause of his frown. The instant she appeared, he’d been struck by an urgent, all but ungovernable, ravenous urge. Which had startled him—his urges were not usually so independent, so totally dismissive, of his will.

As he watched, studied, drank in the sight of her, a light breeze playfully ruffled her curls, setting them dancing; it also ruffled her light skirts, briefly, tantalizingly, molding them to her hips, her thighs, her slender legs. Her heart-shaped bottom.

He looked away and shifted, easing the fullness in his groin.

“Has he approached any gentlemen yet? Or they, him?”

Relocating Bletchley, he shook his head. “It appears his task here—presumably the job Dillon was supposed to do—is to make contact with the jockeys and persuade them to his masters’ cause.” After a moment, he added, “He received a letter some days ago, which spurred him to renewed activity.”

“Orders?”

“Presumably. But I seriously doubt he’ll report back to his masters in writing.”

“He probably can’t write.” Flick glanced over her shoulder and met his eye. “So there’s still a chance the syndicate—at least one of them—will appear here.”

“Yes. To learn of Bletchley’s success, if nothing else.”

“Hmm.” She looked at Bletchley. “I’ll take over watching him for the rest of the afternoon.” She glanced up at him. “I’m sure you’ve got other matters to attend to.”

He captured her gaze. “Be that as it may—”

“As I’ve already pointed out, he won’t expect a young lady to be watching him—it’s the perfect disguise.”

“He might not guess that you’re watching him, but I can guarantee he’ll notice if you follow him.”

She swung to face him; he saw her chin firm. “Be
that
as it may—”

“No.” The single word, uttered quietly and decisively, brought her up short. Eyes narrowing, she glared up at him; he towered, without apology, over her. “There is no reason whatever for you to be involved.”

Her eyes, normally so peacefully lucent, spat sparks. “This was
my
undertaking—
I
invited you to
help
. ‘Help’ does not mean relegating me to the position of mere cipher.”

He held her irate gaze. “You are not a mere cipher—”

“Good!” With a terse nod, she swung back to the Heath. “I’ll help you watch Bletchley then.”

Weaving back to avoid decapitation by her parasol, Demon swore beneath his breath. Falling back half a step, he glared at her back, her hips, the round swells of her bottom, as she stood, stubbornly intransigent, her back to him. “Flick—”

“Look! He’s heading off.”

Glancing up, Demon saw Bletchley quit his position by the oak and amble, with a less-than-convincing show of idleness, toward one of the neighboring stables. Glancing at Flick, already on her toes, about to step out in Bletchley’s wake, Demon hesitated, then his eyes narrowed and his lips curved. “As you’re so determined to help . . .”

Stepping to her right, he caught her hand and set it on his sleeve, anchoring her close—very close—to his side.

Blinking wildly, she looked up. “What do you mean?” Her voice was gratifyingly breathless.

“If you want to help me watch Bletchley, then you’ll have to help provide our disguise.” He raised his brows at her. “Just keep that parasol to the side, and as far as possible, keep your face turned to me.”

“But how am I to watch Bletchley?”

He strolled; she was forced to stroll beside him. A smile of definite intent on his face, he looked down at her. “You don’t need to watch him for us to follow him, but we need to see who he’s meeting.”

One swift glance ahead verified that Bletchley was heading behind the stable, which, from the horses Demon could see on the Heath, would almost certainly be empty. With Flick’s not-exactly-willing assistance, he put his mind to creating a tableau of a couple entirely engrossed with each other, of no possible consequence to Bletchley.

Trapped by his gaze, by the hard palm that held her fingers immobile on his sleeve, by the strength, the power, he so effortlessly wielded, Flick struggled to preserve a facade of normalcy, to slow her breathing and steady her heart. To relax her stiff spine and stroll with passable grace—grace enough to match the reprobate beside her.

The glances he shot ahead, tracking Bletchley, were reassuring, confirming that his intent was indeed to follow the villain and witness any meeting behind the stable. His intent
wasn’t
to unnerve her, to send her senses into quivering stasis. That was merely an accident, an unexpected, unintended repercussion. Thankfully, he hadn’t noticed; she fought to get her wits back in order and her senses realigned.

“Who do you think he’s meeting?” she whispered. Her lungs were still not functioning properly.

“I’ve no idea.” He looked down at her, his heavy lids half obscuring his eyes. His voice had sunk to a deep purr. “Just pray it’s a member of the syndicate.”

His tone and his sleepy expression were disconcerting, of no help at all in reestablishing her equanimity.

Demon looked up. Bletchley had halted at the corner of the stable. As he watched, Bletchley’s gaze swept the throng, then fixed on them. Smoothly, unhurriedly, a wolfish smile curving his lips, he looked down, into Flick’s wide eyes. “Smile,” he instructed. She did, weakly. His own smile deepening, he raised his free hand; with the back of his knuckles he brushed her cheek.

Her breath caught—she skittered back and blushed; effortlessly, his smile very evident, he drew her back.

“I’m only teasing,” he murmured. “It’s just play.”

“I know,” Flick assured him, her heart beating frantically. Unfortunately, he was playing a game with which she was unfamiliar. She tried her best to relax, to smile easily, teasingly, back.

From beneath his lashes, Demon glanced ahead; Bletchley was no longer looking their way. After one last scan of the Heath, he turned and lumbered around the building, out of sight.

Flick’s eyes widened; she immediately stepped out. He hauled her up short, pulling her to his side. “No.” She looked up, ready to glare; he leaned closer—nearer—so the ebb and flow of their interaction looked like a seductive game. “We don’t know,” he murmured, his lips close by her temple, “who he’s meeting and where they are. They might be behind us.”

“Oh.” Obedient to his pressure on her arm, Flick, a smile on her lips, steeled herself and leaned against him, her shoulder and upper arm nestling into the warmth of his chest. Then, with the same sweet, inane smile, she eased away as they continued to stroll.

After a moment—after she’d caught her breath—she looked up, into his smiling eyes. “What are you planning to do?”

His lips quirked, very definitely teasing. “Join Bletchley and his friend, of course.”

They’d reached the corner of the stable; without pause, Demon continued on, not hugging the shadow of the wall as Bletchley had but strolling on and past, into the clear area behind the stable bounded by a railing fence.

As soon as they had cleared the corner, Flick looked ahead. Demon released her elbow, slid his arm about her waist, drew her against him and kissed her.

She nearly dropped her parasol.

“
Don’t
look at him—he’ll notice.” Demon breathed the injunction against her lips, then kissed her, briefly, again.

Wits reeling, she hauled in a breath. “But—”

“No buts. Just follow my lead and we’ll be able to hear everything—and see it all, too.” Setting her on her feet, shielded by her open parasol, presently pointed, rather waveringly, at Bletchley, his eyes searched hers, then he added, his voice deep and low, “If you won’t behave, I’ll have to distract you some more.”

She stared at him. Then she cleared her throat. “What do you want me to do?”

“Concentrate on me as if you aren’t even aware Bletchley and friend exist.”

She kept her gaze glued to his face. “Has his friend arrived?” She hadn’t been able to see before he’d kissed her.

“Not yet, but I think someone’s drifting this way.” Righting her parasol, Demon smiled down at her; his hand resting lightly at her waist, he turned her. Gazes locked, they strolled on, apparently aimlessly.

Bletchley had halted midway along the back of the stable, clearly waiting for someone to join him. From the corner of her eye, Flick saw him frown at them. Demon bent his head and blew in her ear; she squirmed and giggled, entirely spontaneously.

Naturally, he did it again.

With no option but to throw herself into their deception, she giggled and wriggled and squirmed. Laughing, Demon caught her more closely to him, then with a flourish, he whirled her, twirled her—they stopped with him leaning against the railing fence, her before him. His eyes glowed wickedly; his smile was distinctly devilish.

Flick caught her breath on a gasp, a perfectly natural, silly smile on her lips. “What next?” she whispered.

Screened from Bletchley by her parasol, Demon looked down into her eyes. “Put your hand on my shoulder, stretch up and kiss me.”

She blinked at him; he raised his brows innocently, the expression in his eyes anything but. “You’ve done it before.”

She had, but that had been different. He’d started it. Still . . . it hadn’t been difficult.

Fleetingly frowning at him, she placed her free hand on his broad shoulder and stretched up on her toes. Even so, he had to lower his head—balanced precariously on the very tips of her toes, she
had
to lean against him, her breasts to his hard chest, to reach his lips with hers.

She kissed him—just a simple, gentle kiss. When she went to draw back, his hands firmed, one spanning her waist, the other closing about her fingers gripping her parasol. He held her steady as his lips closed over hers.

Tilting her and her parasol to just the right angle, Demon held her before him, and, from beneath his lashes, looked out under the parasol’s frilled rim. Bletchley, ten yards away, had been slouching, watching them idly—he doubtless considered Demon a reckless blade set on seducing a sweet country miss. But although he watched, Bletchley wasn’t interested. Then he straightened, alert, as another man joined him.